


Heartless: the Story of the Tin Man

by SHCombatalade



Category: Dragon Age: Origins, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Ensemble Cast, F/M, Families of Choice, Friendship is Magic, Gen, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark-centric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-16
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-03-29 06:16:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 79,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13921122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SHCombatalade/pseuds/SHCombatalade
Summary: "In the time of gods and monsters, what is the worth of a man?"(Avengers x Dragon Age: Origins crossover)





	1. Courage

**Author's Note:**

> This fic began as a two sentence suggestion over six years ago, and has grown into over 150k words and a good 20% of my life. 
> 
> It's been with me through two degrees, three jobs, the escape of an abusive relationship, a move of 300 miles, two careers, and countless fandoms and projects. It's the sort of project that, although not worked on every single day, has been shared with every single person in my life - against all odds this story has become the single constant of my writing career.
> 
> Despite no longer even being in (active in?) the two fandoms it's written about, this story is such a giant labor of love that I had to see it through to the end. It's taken me about twelve drafts and seventy five months to get here, but it's finally happening and I am a heavy mix of elated, terrified, and depressed.
> 
> For Rony, because she's been with me every single step of the way, and because for every time I thought I was ready to give up she never did.

**Part One**

I. 

He remembers fire.

Fire, and noise, and chaos, and panic, and _screams_ – he remembers the screams. Of the dying, and of the beasts.

He remembers the beasts.

They come without warning, up from the depths of the mines, from a burrow all but forgotten – they come bursting forth from the rocks, swarming the tunnels, surging like a tidal wave through the winding path toward sunlight. Thousands upon thousands of pressing bodies, sharp and inhuman, crashing together like gnashing teeth of jagged weapons and cruelly spiked armor. They crash like the ocean, like the drums – he remembers the drums. The only herald to the rising tide, an echoing bellow when they descend onto the village beneath.

He remembers the pain.

Pain burning white hot pain deep in his chest and jagged breaths and scarlet blood and he can’t breathe _he can’t breathe_ it hurts too much he can’t breathe he’s drowning

And then darkness claims him, and he doesn’t remember anything at all.

* * *

 He dreams.

Faces swim in and out of his vision, and he knows he must be dead because so are they – the faces from the village. From his past. Of all the people he’d sworn to protect. Cold faces. Accusing faces. Faces that glare guilt and betrayal under the harsh light of his failure – he’d failed. It was not a feeling he enjoyed, nor one he was unfamiliar with. Much as the faces are familiar, so is their feeling; failure has never been a stranger in his home.

He dreams of faces, and his failings, and the beasts linger in the darkness, at the edges of consciousness, and dig taloned fingers through his remaining happy memories.

He dreams of a monster. A dragon, winged and feral, that screeches and he can feel it down in his bones.

He dreams of a voice, dark and angry, that orders him to wake up.

The dragon’s neck snaps at the noise, noticing him, meets his gaze and it knows him, _it knows_ —

He blinks himself awake.

* * *

 “Wake up, you bastard,” and gods damn it, he  _knows_ that voice. “Wake _up_. Your beauty sleep is over.”

He’s awake, and he’s in pain. All he can manage is a low moan, because he knows that voice and everything hurts and that can only mean one thing. “I’m dead.” Everything hurts, especially the way he knows that he’s not. “And I’m stuck in hell with Nicholas thrice-damned Fury.”

The insult is greeted with a chuckle. “You’re not dead, and neither am I.” He thinks, maybe, the disappointment should worry him. “Now come on, Stark. Up. There’s not nearly enough time for the amount of sleep it would take to make you pretty.”

It’s the effort a lifetime – of two even, maybe three now – to haul himself up, to feel his muscles stretch and merciful Allfather, that _hurts_. And Fury is here, his dad’s Fury, Fury from his childhood who should be dead, and that’s a whole other kind of hurt he’s feeling. A too-familiar kind. So he does what he’s always done, what he does best: he grits his teeth, and he smiles through the pain. “Well, beauty _is_ in the **eye** of the beholder.”

He must be pretty bad off, because Fury cracks a smile.

“Listen, Stark—”

“Where are we, anyhow?” Beige walls of a standard issue tent don’t lend many clues, but he’s knows they’re topside by the air, by the way it tastes open and free as a – are those birds? He can hear birds, he thinks. Gods. He remembers birds.

“Ostagar.”

Ignoring the sharp pull of stitches he didn’t know he had and the white hot burning in his chest, he finally makes it to his feet, albeit shakily. “We’re at _Ostagar_?” And he’s manic now, his usual state, too much caught under his skin and not enough space when he paces the length of the tent, but nothing feels normal. The world, his body, feels muted and sharp. “That’s... that’s over a month’s ride! How long was I out? What happened at the mines? And why, in the name of the Allfather, are we at _Ostagar_??” Everything is too much, and growing moreso – he moves with reserves of energy he hadn’t thought he had left, speaks with a strength he _knows_ that he doesn’t, and there’s a blue light growing brighter and brighter, filling the tent, pulsing intensity to match and—

“Tony.” Fury is in front of him now, hands tight against his arms, and in the low blue light his face looks the visage of death. “Tony, I’m gonna need for you to calm down.”

“Oh.”

Oh, Tony says, catching sight of the disc in his chest. _Oh_.

It’s diamond, or something stronger, and glowing the same blue – lyrium blue – as the marks carved into the surrounding flesh. Warding runes. Banishing sigils. Every protective mark from the three schools of magic, etched down to the bone of his ribs, shimmering silver and blue and it all _reeks_ of magic. He blinks, staving off the headache of a panic, and looks again: the brightly burning warnings and wards and the smooth, glassy circle at the center remain unchanged. A closer look and he can see an iridescent pool of raw lyrium roiling like a maelstrom beneath the surface. “What happened,” he coughs around a voice that croaks like it hasn’t been used in weeks. Around the realization that it hasn’t. “What happened at the mines?”

“Darkspawn,” is all Fury says, and it’s enough. “It’s a Blight, Tony.” He doesn’t need to say anything more, not to him – not to a Stark, whose very name goes hand-in-hand with the word.

“Was I tainted?” There’s a million and one other questions surging like bile in his throat, fighting to get out – what about the villagers or the miners or Jarvis, gods, _Jarvis_ , what happened to the people, how many did I fail _this_ time, why did you save _me_ – but all that comes out is selfish.

“Yes.”

But he’s alive, and he knows what that means. “No. No, you had **no right** —”

“ **I HAD EVERY RIGHT**!” Now Fury is the one yelling and the light vanishes, curls back into Tony’s chest as he hunches around it, hands subconsciously coming up to cradle the disc. It’s warm. Alive. He’s alive. “The Right of Conscription _gives_ me the right. To anyone. Criminals, princes... Even _you_ , Tony Stark.” His voice has softened by now, though his face has not – it is grim, even by its usual standard. “We are at _war_. People are _dying_. And more people are going to, a lot more. I need all the help I can get and, like it or not, you’re the best there is.”

He is. He isn’t. “I’m not  _him_.”

“Yeah, well,” and Fury looks at him with pity. With affection, With anger. With actual human emotion and it’s all too much, almost too much to bear. “Look where we are now. Maybe that’s a good thing.” He retreats, out of Tony’s space and out of the tent entirely, throwing a shirt behind him as he does. “Royal pavilion in half an hour. Welcome to the Grey Wardens, Tony.”

II.

The first face he sees as he enters a camp preparing for war is Pepper’s, and he feels the smile ground across his face loosen, lengthen into something real because it’s _Pepper_ – his Pepper, one of his oldest friends, and she’s here and they are _alive_. “Queen Virginia!” He bows less on etiquette and more on the knowledge of how much she hates it, and he opens his arms for a hug because she’s moving towards him and— “Ow, **ow**!! Really?? Should royalty be _hitting_?” It’s all in good fun until she lands a solid blow, right in the center of his chest, and the pain comes so intensely that it threatens to take him out at the knees. “What was that for?”

“ _That_ ,” she informs him haughtily, “was for making me queen.”

Oh, he thinks. That. “Technically, _technically_ , I didn’t. I made you my _successor_. It was my death that made you queen.”

“Tony, you faked your death.”

“Not the point.” In the part of his brain that is not completely overwhelmed with time and with war and with magic and with blue skies, he recognizes that maybe, just maybe, it might be a little bit of the point. “Besides, I was a terrible king.”

She glares. “And I was a child.”

“And you’ve done a great job! Really, Pep—”

Another swat, this one more effectively deflected up to his shoulder, which still hurts more than he’s thought possible but doesn’t send his vision swimming dangerously into a vortex. “I was _seven!_ ”

“Yeah, you were, but that was like ten years ago and now you’re not.” She’s calmer now, leaning against his shoulder companionably, and for a moment his thoughts derail and he just  _looks_. Pepper, the little girl mature beyond her years that he’d entrusted with his kingdom, is a young lady now, almost full grown. Ten years changes a lot, it seems. He’d forgotten, in the decade away, that life continued in his absence; known logically, of course, but somehow cannot reconcile the young woman at his side with the scabby-kneed child he remembers. “Pepper, please. You’ve done an amazing job. Everyone loves you. Do you _honestly_ think I would have been a better choice?”

“Well,” her nose wrinkles, making her myriad freckles stand out in sharp contrast Ten years changes a lot, but not everything. “No. You were awful.”

“Hey now,” he jostles her fondly and she finally smiles. “What do  _you_  know? You were seven.”

“I know I did a great job.”

Something loosens in his chest, some knot caught beneath the sharp pain of the circle, and he takes the first deep breath of topside that he’s had in ten years. “I was terrible,” he informs her quietly.

“You were,” she agrees.

* * *

He’s only a little over a minute late to the meeting, and ten years must change more than he thought because it hasn’t even started yet; in fact, they seem mostly surprised to see him at all – with the exception of Fury, who looks almost... proud? It’s a strange, unfamiliar expression that he quickly ignores in favor of more recognizable faces. There’s only the five of them, but a wave of nostalgia catches him off guard – these are _his_ people, and he hasn’t seen them all in over a decade. Fury, his father’s advisor who is potentially becoming his as well, greets him with a gruff nod. Ser Phillip, Pepper’s regent (who Tony has never gotten the chance to know, but knows is a good man), ignores him beyond a private smile. And there, standing behind them with his attentions fixed on the table, is— “Obie?”

“Kid!”

Obie is a bear of a man, almost overbearing, and it takes everything Tony has left to not cry at the sight of him. Obie was his father’s oldest friend and most trusted counsel, and was Tony’s favorite uncle and beloved teacher. His constant. “Glad to see you up and around... I was worried about you.” There’s a familiar weight from the hand on his shoulder and the heavy presence at his back, but rather than intimidation it’s an old comfort, Obie looming. For a single moment, it’s like none of the past months, _years_ , have happened; for a single moment, Tony is uncomplicatedly happy.

And then the war council starts.

“Your Majesty,” Obie does not move his hand from the deadweight grip at Tony’s collar, “you must see reason. The Darkspawn attacks in the North are an isolated occurrence.” Another thing that hasn’t changed in his absence: Obie’s speech is reasonable. Persuasive, even. “This is an anomaly, not a true Blight.”

“I’ve seen him,” Fury counters from across the map-strewn table. “The archdemon. I’ve had the dreams.”

A dragon, bathed in green fire. Screams, aching down in his bones. Tony thinks maybe he’s had the dreams, too.

“You’re an old man, and an older Warden.” Reason and logic are set aside for the measure of emotion in Obie’s voice now, something scornful. “You know what those dreams mean. You’re dying, Nick, looking for one last good fight. I understand, but we cannot send a nation to war over one outpost’s mining mishap—”

It’s not Tony’s place to speak, but he fills it anyway. “Whoa, whoa – are you saying this is _my_ fault?”

The hand at his shoulder tightens, squeezing reassuringly. Warningly. “Tony, accidents happen. Someone mines too deep, into the Deep Roads, disturbs a pocket... It’s not anyone’s _fault_. A terrible accident.”

A jerk of his arm and he shakes off the touch, shrugging away the faces from the village, human and dwarven alike, that flash across his memory. “My people were slaughtered,” he feels the sharp tug of claws at his skin, the sharp prick of tears at the corners of his eyes, the sharp pull of a headache behind his temples. “And you want to call it an _accident_?”

“No, Tony, gods no. A mistake in the calculations—”

“There was,” he snarls, surprised by the frostiness of his own voice, by the effort required to grind the words out. “No mistake.” There’s an ice-cold tremor running the length of his arm, pooling lyrium blue into the clench of his fist, and his joints pop to contain it all. It itches, burns, pulls at his skin and it’s too much, it’s all too much, his fingers ache to release it, _need_ to release it, need to get it as far away as he can, just pick a target in any direction and— Tony’s spine stiffens at the second touch to his shoulder, but it’s a smaller weight. A calmer, more understanding one.

Fury.

He opens his fist, and the blue light is gone.

“I’ve seen him too.” The voice is quiet, so unexpected that Tony bites his lip against the startled sound that accompanies the full body jolt _away_ from Ser Phillip. “The archdemon, that is.” Of all he’s known of Ser Phillip, Tony hadn’t know him to be a Grey Warden – it makes sense. Fury’s eyes were everywhere, even among the royalty. Even in the north, in the two men who followed him out of the capital and were probably meant to be a secret. They’d hid themselves in plain sight among the other human villagers, but they’d carried themselves like warriors and he’d made them immediately.

 If he’s even heard the comment, Obie ignores it. “The Darkspawn that attacked the north are all that remain. We wipe them out here, and this ends.”

Pepper listens, thoughtful, before finally casting her vote; it’s just the most recent instance where Tony knows he made the right choice. She’s a full decade younger than him but already more of an adult than he’ll ever be, collected and calm. “How soon until they arrive?”

Fury answers, sour expression still in place. “The frontrunners will be here by the evening,” he moves a charcoal black square on the map. “Stane’s right,” and Tony thinks the agreement says more about Fury’s abilities as a leader than Obie’s, the way he easily sets aside the argument to work together. “We should make our stand here. Ostagar’s a fortress, perfectly defensible.”

“If possible, we should face them down in the valley.” Ser Phillip moves away from his place beside the queen to join the others at the table, the three older warriors now in a council all their own. Tony wonders if he’s even needed beyond now, if he can’t slip off for a drink or a moment alone to process or panic or _mourn_ – Pepper’s soft touch at his wrist stops him, and when he shoots an accusing glare in her direction she’s not even looking at him. Ten years changes a lot, but it doesn’t change everything. He doesn’t know why, but he’s grateful for that. “Keep our archers and mages up on the bridge.”

Obie and Fury nod in temporary agreement. “I’ll take my men through the southern pass, flank the enemy.” Obie moves the tan tokens, meant to be his own, on the map. “At the order, we’ll attack from the rear.”

Ser Phillip gestures to the tower behind them. “I’ll have one of ours light the signal fire.” He smiles as he speaks, face open and stance easy, but there’s an undercurrent of authority in his voice that expressly forbids even an attempt to argue. Tony’s not sure what happened between these two in the past, to have Obie so easily kotowed, but it’s obvious there’s more history tying them together than just their various ties of loyalty to the crown. “Your Majesty—”

The smile shifts to fondness when he addresses his charge, who in turn relaxes into rarely allowed youth. “I _know_ , Phil. Stay back at camp, and ride when you tell me.”

“You forgot ‘let the others die before me,’” his eyes crinkle, though his voice smooths. “About the Blight—”

It’s all but impossible to imagine that scabby-kneed, seven-year-old Pepper now; she folds her hands, impossibly composed, and addresses the three men with equal regard. “I am not discounting that this _is_ a true Blight, but for tonight my concern must lie with the immediate threat.” Like Ser Phillip, there’s no welcome for disagreement in her voice, though Tony doubts any of them would; she is, as he told her, a very respected queen. “Tomorrow morning I would like to meet with Commander Fury to hear more about these nightmares, and how to stop the archdemon before it becomes too late.”

“Your Majesty—”

“You may voice your disagreements in the morning, Arl Stane.” Pepper’s smile effectively silences the objection. “Now, if you and Phil can both set aside your differing opinions, I believe we have a battle to plan.”

* * *

He doesn’t have time to sneak off, even to start to, before Fury stops him with a hand at his shoulder again. “Stark—”

“Okay, you _really_ need to stop calling me that.” The name is a full body flinch he hasn’t heard in ten years, a scrape against his skin, something almost strange. It’s a name that is and isn’t his, and beyond recognition brings with it a slew of memories he thought he’d done a rather impressive job of burying at the bottom of a bottle. It, like so much of his life, has been something he hasn’t wanted.

“Tony.” Fury smiles at him, indulgent, and he thinks it might be more off-putting than the glare. “Time to meet the rest of the team.”

“There’s a _team_?” If he were being honest with himself, which he is rarely, he might admit that it’s less the idea of a team that bothers him, and more that he hadn’t considered it. He’s usually so thorough with the variables. It’s only that he hasn’t even had the time yet to fully consider the implications – he is a Grey Warden now, of course there are others. Wardens never travel alone.

He blames the distractions of Pepper and fresh air and not being dead for missing the cluster of tents arranged in a half-circle around the one he’d woken up in. Five total, all facing the bonfire rendered completely unnecessary by the daylight hours, with the silver griffin flying proudly overhead; a shadow detaches itself from one of the tents, noiselessly materializing into the form of an elf. Dalish, Tony remembers, from the facial tattoos – his are vivid purple, spread across his brow and temples like wings. Fury gestures him over. “Tony, this is Clint Barton.” Aside from the presumption of being a Warden, there’s nothing particularly impressive about him aside from the bow, as tall as he is, slung across his back.

It’s all too easy to slip back into the familiar lie. “Anthony Edwards,” he offers a hand.

The elf – Clint – does not take it. He looks Tony over with a shrug before slinking back into the shadows, and Tony must have spent too long among the dwarves because he’s almost grateful to not be engaged in conversation. It’s too much for one day, for one lifetime almost, Pepper and Obie and sunlight and elves. It’s his first day in his homeland in a decade and he’s running himself into the ground, anything and everything to avoid thinking about the mines and the thing in his chest that he’s afraid to even ask about.

A snort of laughter at the spurn and Fury continues. “And somewhere around here is – there we do,” the far tent opens to a large and blond figure with a rather bewildered expression, who makes a beeline for Fury once he’s seen him. “Steve Rogers, Tony Edwards. Don’t talk to him, he’s a terrible influence.” It goes unmentioned, but Tony’s sure Fury means him. “Barton, I need you back here.” The elf reappears before the sentence has even ended, as silent as before – Tony is marginally impressed this time, but mostly just creeped out.

“Now, Stane’s got the entire camp focused on the attack tonight, and if he has his way they’ll forget any mention of the Blight by next week. I’ve got Coulson debating tactics with him; that buys us approximately three hours. We need the treaties.” Tony’s beginning to feel as though they never expected him to wake up with the way the others nod and turn to buckle on armor without a single explanation his way – Treaties. Dreams. There’s a Grey Warden crash course that he’s missed, and they act like they expect him to sit for the exam. “Barton—”

 Barton preps the bow with ease, handling what must be at least an eighty pound draw as though it’s nothing. “They won’t know we’re gone, Ser.”

“Be sure they don’t. And be back by nightfall.” The dismissal in Fury’s command is palpable, sending the others to the edge of the camp; Barton blends into the line of trees until he all but disappears entirely, and Tony takes the moment of indecision over whether he’s meant to join them or not debating whether it’s the strategically speckled leathers or just some inherent talent of elves that accomplishes the illusion. Before he makes up his mind, Fury presses a flask into his hand.

“Bout time,” he jokes, though in all honesty he’s never been more grateful.

Fury doesn’t release his grip, instead pressing the container harder against Tony’s palm. “It’s lyrium,” and Tony is less thankful entirely. “You’ll need it.”

“Expecting that much trouble?”

Fury’s not smiling anymore, not even the little he was before. He’s not glaring either – he’s standing stiffly, too stiff, and looking anywhere but at Tony. “Your body’s using it constantly just keeping itself going, but you’ll eat through it if you cast any spells.”

“Seriously, Fury,” Tony is alive, but nothing in this life he’s entered makes sense. “What are you talking about?”

“If you run out... just don’t run out.” And he taps the center of Tony’s chest with one finger, hitting the disc through two layers of leather and cloth, where Tony can feel every last mark etched into his skin burning softly in reply. The question he’s been hiding from all day slips out before he can stop it.

“What happened,” his lips feel too dry, face too warm. He can feel the roil of magic in his chest. “What happened at the mines?”

“Your heart, Tony. They ripped out your heart.”

III.

“Oh.”

Oh, Tony says, and it’s the only thing he can manage. _They ripped out your heart_. And it’s not true, it _can’t_ be, because he’s walking and talking and breathing and it hurts, he _hurts_ , and he’s never been much of a healer but the heart seems fairly vital for all of those functions. But it must be, it _must_ be, because he squeezes his eyes shut and he hears breathing and birds and a hollow in his chest where there should be the _thump thump thump_ of a heart.

Coarse fingers fumble at his shirt until he’s laid bare the warm-cold circle of diamond and the markings around it and he finally lets himself look, really _look_. There are six of them glowing among skin and scars, and they ache in a tingly, not-hurt way; it’s not pleasant, he can feel the spells skittering across his skin like an electric current and there’s a tug of barely healed wounds, but he’s somehow, improbably, alive. Two of the marking he recognizes as binding spells. Another two are for protection. He’s not entirely sure about one, but it’s either for banishing sickness or keeping cattle from wandering, and he would put either as beyond Fury’s sense of propriety. The final one he’s not sure he’s ever seen before, and he’s studied nearly every spell there is at least once.

On the inside of the circle of runes, right around the edge of the diamond, there’s a prayer to the Allfather. _Where the Brave shall live Forever – Nor shall we mourn but Rejoice for those that have died the Glorious death_. It’s the prayer for the dead, or part of it, and he wonders if they ever meant the runes to work at all.

“So,” and his voice sounds as rough as he feels. “Lyrium, then?”

Fury looks sad and so impossibly old when he answers. “We patched you up as best we could. There... there wasn’t a lot left for us to work with.” Tony doesn’t want to hear any of this, not even a little, but he bites his cheek and strains a smile and nods for Fury to continue. “Far as we know, that lyrium will keep everything running – good for casting too, but, like I said, runs it down quicker. You’re gonna need to maintain that reservoir if—”

He doesn’t say it. Tony’s glad, just a little bit, because he’s not sure he can manage two more death sentences so soon after cheating the first one. “Am I going to go crazy?” There’s so much more going on here, so much more he should be worried about, but his brain is panicking in a way he knows would have him sent into shutdown mode if he wasn’t currently plugged into the strangest power source known to magic. All he can focus on is the horror stories of what happens to humans who come too close to unprocessed ore.

“You’re already crazy,” and the joke falls as flat as his expression; Tony appreciates the effort. “But no, not... not that we know of. You got wards for that, to keep the lyrium from eating through your body like a hungry nug and to keep your meatsack moving around. A few more thrown in to make you a bit harder to kill in the future.” He thrusts the flask into Tony’s hand a third time, and only then does Tony realize he’s shaking, just trembling entirely, vibrating like the energy beneath his skin and he can’t get his fingers to close around it – and then he can. He can, and he does, and he’s _fine_ ; he’s a Stark, whether he wears the name or not, and he’s been raised on pain and hardship and smiling through it.

He takes the flask and stuffs it into a pocket beside the thousand burning questions he doesn’t have the strength for. “Let’s do this then.”

* * *

The land they call the Wilds seem, at least to Tony’s last decade in the unforgiving north, grossly misnamed – less wild and more simply underdeveloped. They have three hours and it takes them only half of one to make it through the swamp. Not that Tony is surprised, really – they have a map and an elf and a genius to guide them; he is surprised, however, when they come around a bend expecting to find a bridge, and find a pack of Hurlocks instead.

He sees it immediately, why Barton is impressive – Tony’s barely had time to process that the bridge is out, let alone that the rubble is guarded by twelve monsters from nightmares and fire and pain and _they ripped out your heart, Tony_. He’s just standing there, frozen, shaking like a leaf while Barton fires once, twice, three times in rapid succession and each shot hits its mark dead center in the eye. It’s almost frightening, the way a quarter of their enemies drop before he’s finished counting their number to begin with. And then his fingers itch and the bones in his arm ache and his skin runs cold and hot and tingly all at once, and the blue glow from his chest leaks into his hands again – but this time he doesn’t will it away. He _listens_. Listens to every fiber of his being that says it’s too much, it’s going to burn him alive; he opens his hand and a blue jet, lyrium and magic and something else, something undefinably _his_ , rockets out to strike the Hurlock square in the chest. It sizzles and burns as it drops.

It is _exhilarating_. It feels like the first time he’d cast fire, powerful and ancient and coiling around him like a tiger, but it burns cold instead of hot and packs twice the punch, and he’s momentarily distracted by the unknown force that’s just called itself into being from his.

Then a read and blue and white blur shoots past him, hitting the next in a charge of creatures with a metallic _thwunk_ only inches from where he stands, and he jerks back to full consciousness. He’s always been one to examine new data to its full potential, but there’s a time and a place for his obsessive studies and it’s not now. Not here. Here and now is monsters, and blue fire.

After that, the only frightening part is how easy it becomes.

Barton is speed and silence, arrows shot with lethal precision all but too fast to be seen, and he doesn’t speak a word or crack a twig beneath his feet. He’s a ghost. He flickers in and out of the fight like a shadow, raining down sharp objects and dead Hurlocks, and while Tony’s never met an elf before today he thinks he’s beginning to see why the dwarves would rather keep the distance between them. And then Rogers, clumsy and awkward on his feet back at camp, moves like a dancer when he fights, body twisting to the side to catch his—

“Are you **serious**?” The last Hurlock is felled with a sharp jab from Rogers’ shield, bones cracking as the edge slams into its windpipe like a striking snake. Tony knows that shield. Knows it as well as he knows his own name: two and a half feet in diameter, twelve pounds, made from a metal that shouldn’t exist, the only sample of its kind. Under the paint, iconic concentric circles of red and white and red and white and blue, are tiny marks spelled in gold ink: HAS. His father made that shield. It’s got more wards and spells worked into it than he does, and only one man can make it fly like that. “Captain America? You brought _Captain America_ back from the dead?”

When Rogers turns to face him, his face isn’t soft anymore. His eyes aren’t even blue anymore – they’re white, pupil-less and vacant, and the voice that responds isn’t the one he’d previous spoken in. “Junior.” He knows him then, of course he does, despite the fact that they’ve never met – because that was the trick, wasn’t it. Captain America died fifty years ago, saving the kingdom from the last Blight. But Tony is the spitting image of his father, or so he’s been told, so of course the Captain recognizes him. He’d been Howard’s champion, after all. “You look just like him.”

“Cap.” It’s eerie to see the Captain smile – the motion tugs the corners of Rogers’ mouth out comically far, taut like a puppet’s strings. “Nice to finally meet you. I’d say ‘face to face’ but, well...” He gestures at Rogers’ form, so different than the one Tony knows belonged to the Captain, and shrugs; it’s a step up, at least, from the previous garb of skintight and patriotism.

The Captain smiles just as woodenly as before, and Tony would punch him were it not poor Rogers who would take the blow. “He volunteered for this, you know.” The voice is deeper than Rogers’, colder. A perfect mix of arrogance and authority. “Serving his country. Not something you’d know much about.” It doesn’t surprise Tony that he’s been dead for fifty years and already been caught up on the Stark family failings – Captain America had always been brilliant, his father told him. “What a blessing that he died before he ever had to see what he’d attached his name to.”

Smile through the pain, and Tony does. “Send Steve back,” he leans close, too close, for the satisfaction of the Captain moving back. “I think I like him better.” Just like that the vacant eyes are cornflower blue again, and the shield sags in his arms before he sags to his knees – Barton is there in an instant to catch him.

“You alright?” Rogers nods, but doesn’t refuse the elf’s help in finding his feet or securing the shield across his back – it fits beneath a leather cover bearing the Warden rampant, hiding the bright colors and the declaration they make. Tony feels sick to his stomach from it all.

“Yeah.” Rogers’ voice is soft and warm and _young_. “I’m still not used to that.”

Tony snaps. “You’ll never be _used to that_.” By the way the other Wardens jerk their attention to him, stances rigid and battle ready, the words come out harsher than he’s intended. “You’ve got a warrior’s spirit back from the dead and riding you into battle like a pony. He doesn’t feel pain, doesn’t feel _anything_ , and he will run your body _into the ground_. The Captain is going to kill you, you know, either in a battle you can’t fight or just by using you like a cheap napkin.” It’s too much – there’s a hole in his chest and a war in his future, and Tony only wishes he had a life to throw away like Rogers has. “You’re a damned idiot.”

“People are _dying_ , Edwards,” Rogers snaps, and there’s a bit of steel in the young man’s voice that wasn’t there before, like maybe he’s not all soft edges and big blue eyes. If he wasn’t so angry and overwhelmed – he’d gone to sleep and woken up in this nightmare after all, no time to process – Tony might be impressed. “ _Someone_ had to do something. I’m saving lives—”

“Actually, _Steve_ , the Captain is saving lives. You’re just the dress he wears to the party.” It’s stupid, he knows, to be fighting amongst themselves like this, but Tony can’t fight the Blight and he can’t fight time and he can’t fight the gaping hole of inevitability in his chest – but he can fight Rogers and, well, wrong place wrong time. “I may not be a hero, but at least I’m not pretending to be one.” From the way Rogers wilts, clearly he’s hit a mark – it doesn’t make him feel any better about the low blow. The Captain remains conspicuously silent on the issue.

Barton does not.

“Shut your trap, Edwards, before I shut it for you.” He threatens like he does much of everything else – effortless, quick, a sneak attack and then he’s gone. He turns back to take the map from where it’s fallen to the ground, scanning their surroundings to compare their progress. “Strategically, it would make sense to hold the hill. If we come around the back, we should be able to get to the treaties without stumbling into an army.” Rogers shifts on his feet, slowly coming back into himself; he nods and gestures to a few spots on the map, while Tony stands very still and desperately hopes to avoid speaking to either of them. “You good?”

It’s only when no one else responds that Tony realizes the question was aimed at him. “What?”

Barton waves, awkward for the first time Tony’s seen, at his chest. “Are you good?” And oh, Tony thinks, they know. They _know_ , and Rogers is looking at him with something halfway to pity in his eyes, like of course he’s been so completely awful, he hasn’t got a heart anymore. It makes him feel both better and worse all at once, and _angry_ – he’s always been pitied, and one of the first things he learned was how empty a feeling it was. Pity is useless. So he nods and grunts and tugs the sleeve of his robe, and when their faces don’t harden again he mutters something foul in _dwarva_ that makes Barton’s eyes turn flinty and cold.

“So,” Tony continues down the road, pretending far too hard that this heartlessness is a recent development. “Let’s go get these treaties.”

* * *

They don’t stumble into an army. They trip over a few patrols, here and there – it would probably be more, but Barton guides them through the Wilds without much effort, skirting behind small units of Darkspawn like he knows they’re there long ahead of time. Tony has to admit, for all he’s an elf and a Warden and a stranger and a pitying face, that he’s grateful to have him along.

The second hour mark falls lower in the sky with the sun and Barton raises a hand to stop them; they’ve reached the cliff overhanging the ruins of what was, he explains for Tony’s benefit, a Warden stronghold. “The treaties are at the base, in a hidden compartment built into the cliff wall.”

“So,” and Tony gestures down the near eighty foot drop, “How do we—” He realizes that the others are staring at him expectantly, almost earnestly. “What?” Their gazes immediately drop. Barton’s to the fletching of a retrieved arrow, meticulously straightening the feathers, and Rogers’ to his feet. “ _What?_ ”

It’s Rogers who finally speaks, and for the first time Tony realizes how _young_ he sounds. His accent marks him as a commoner, maybe from the west Amaranthine – Tony’s not sure anymore, not like he used to be, but all he’s known for a decade now is dwarves and rock and snow and cold, but he’d bet money on Rogers only being a few years older than Pepper. “Can’t you just—” He waves over the gap.

“What, _fly_?” He laughs, but the others don’t. Tony bites the smile down at the equal dose of hopeful and ashamed in their faces. “No, I can’t fly.” The words have dropped their angles, sharpness lost to the down to the bones tiredness he feels – his body is aching and his chest is thrumming and he is _tired_ – so he offers a wry smile before dropping his pack to the dirt. “I’m not sure what you’ve heard about mages, but we’re not actually all that magical. I won’t bore you with the details, elements and the Fade and such, but no. I can’t fly. Actually, retraction, I’ve never tried. Nor do I intend to. The point is,” he pulls a few lengths of rope from his pack – lightweight, high tensile strength. Dwarven-make. “I _can_ abseil.” A quick glance and he notes Rogers’ calloused hands and broad shoulders, likely from farm work, and he throws the coil of rope over. “You and _Da’assan_ find a place to tie me off; I’m going down. Three tugs, you start pulling.”

After the rope is secured to his approval (Tony revises his theory of Rogers from farm work to fishing, after checking the knots), Tony takes the first leap over the edge. There’s a moment of blind panic as he freefalls, no more than a few feet, until the slack catches and the rope jerks in his hands – no matter how many times he’s done this, he’s never shaken that initial second of fear. “I’m okay!” he calls up, hating the way his voice shakes. “Be back in a minute!”

Twenty-eight minutes later, the rope jerks against the tree they’ve anchored it to once, twice, three times; Rogers scrambles to his feet to start taking in the slack, helping Tony climb back up. It’s slow going, and with each minute that passes Barton grows more anxious in the way he glances back the direction they’d come. “We need to get back,” he growls, and moves to help with the rope. The extra hands all but pull Tony over the rise, extending a hand for help – the other clutches an old cotton satchel tightly. “Something is wrong,” Barton continues, near vibrating. “The birds have all gone silent. It’s going to be dark soon... let’s go. Now.”

They double-time it back to Ostagar without spotting Darkspawn once, despite sticking to the main roads, and the increasing stillness does the opposite to their mood – the Wilds are too peaceful, and they quicken their pace. Tony’s entire body is humming with the adrenaline, the lyrium surging in his veins like a tidal wave, and he feels cold and hot and too fast and too much and too big for his skin. _Something is wrong_ , the words echo, until they crest the final ridge above the gates to the fortress and the quiet shatters in the sounds of battle. Clashing metal and yelling soldiers and snarling beasts, a symphony of guttural cries and high-pitched screams, and Tony spares himself all of one second to flashback to fire and burning and pain before he throws the treaties to Barton. “Hey Rogers?”

“Yes?”

“Now would be a really great time for Cap to come out and play.”

IV.

The fire at the center of the Warden campsite has gone out. This, more than anything, sets Tony’s nerves on edge.

It’s a tiny detail in a flurry of motion and noise – men running for the bridge, from the bridge, distant fires and tinny _clang-clang-thud_ , sucking wet noises, and screaming. So much screaming, he thinks there can’t possibly be anyone whose kept their head from it all. There’s Barton. He blinks like it’s nothing he hasn’t seen before, picking a confident path through the chaos toward the bridge. Rogers – the Captain now, he supposes, in the set of the spine – follows silently after, leaving Tony and his racing brain and the hole in his chest, terror squeezing at his lungs because he’s not a soldier, he’s a scholar. A thinker. A maker.

But he’s a Warden now too, and it’s not as though he’s got any longer of a life ahead of him if he turns tail and runs, so instead he chases after them.

Ser Phillip catches them as they pass the royal pavilion, halfway clad in full mail armor and carrying a spear that’s almost too large for unmounted combat with practiced ease. “Did you retrieve the treaties?” His earnestness fades at the sight of the satchel, waving it away when Barton thrusts it forward in answer. “Hold on to those. Guard them well. If any of us survive this,” he doesn’t sound hopeful, “We’ll need them. “I’ve got some of my men at the tower ready to light the beacon, and now—”

“Pepper,” Tony chokes out, because he’s already lost too many of his people, and he can’t lose her too. Especially not Pepper, from before, from every happy memory of his childhood, who he trusts with his kingdom and his secrets and his life. She’s the only one left now, and the only one that matters. She has to be safe. “Queen Virginia, is she—?”

She must be, because Ser Phillip’s brow furrows in annoyance. “She’s here,” he jabs the butt of the spear against the walls of the tent behind him, “Against my better judgement. She refused to ride out before the attack. Refused to leave her people.”

He understands the feelings of frustration; that is exactly the sort of noble, idiotic gesture she would attempt. “Pep,” Tony calls warningly, but whatever her reply, denial or refusal, is lost in the approach of the wounded swordsman. He staggers from the bridge, shirt ripped and leather soaked, to collapse at Ser Phillip’s feet.

“The tower,” he croaks; his voice sounds thick, wet with the bubbles of a dying man. “They’ve taken the tower.”

“What?”

He fumbles for the words that elude him, gesturing mindlessly; his skin is grey, like ash. “They came, from below – hundreds of them. They... they’ve taken the tower!”

“So take it back!” Nervous energy builds in Tony’s joints, begging for release, and the longer they stand the sharper his nerves flicker and flare; the pain – not pain, pressure maybe. It feels as though he’s got a river coursing beneath his skin – makes him snappish.

The man sags, “the beacon,” and then he stops speaking at all. For a moment the unflappable mask of calm that Ser Phillip is known for slips – he is torn, caught in three directions that are tugging, desperate, all demanding the full attention he cannot spare. He looks to the tower, to his men in the valley, to the ten and the young monarch he has sworn his life to. It is a battle fought within himself on far too many fronts.

Barton places a calming, familiar hand on his arm. “We’ll go.” He jerks his head across, across the bridge to the tower, and the unlit beacon sitting atop. “The queen needs you here.” Ser Phillip nods in return, closed-off expression slipping back into place with the heavy breastplate, and he passes lingering, unreadable glance over each of them in turn before slamming the faceplate of his helmet with sharp finality. The Captain clasps his arm at the elbow, and Barton murmurs a few words in his native tongue. Tony flinches. They both read with the punctuation of a farewell.

It has been five hours and seventeen minutes since he woke up with a ticking countdown carved into his chest.

* * *

The tower is mostly empty when they reach it – there are bodies, too many of them, hacked and bloody on the floor with no hope for survivors, but minimal Darkspawn present. The rest have moved on, surging behind and over the waiting troops to overtake the battle in the valley; the other Wardens face the door with a grim set to their jaws like maybe they knew, like Fury knew and Ser Phillip knew and Obie probably knew but hadn’t wanted to admit. This attack they face here tonight is not a patrol. Not the frontrunners. This is not an isolated attack: it is an invasion. Their kingdom is facing down an army, one they are horrifically underprepared and undermanned for.

Their sweep of the first floor yields mostly corpses and ruin, and the gaping chasm of the tunnels beneath that the Darkspawn emerged from; they are dark, eerily so, and pulse with the echo of distant drums. He doesn’t remember the drumming, but Tony gives the jagged maw a wide berth as the magic in his chest flickers once, twice, as nervous as he is. The Captain and Barton are both completely silent, picking their way through destruction without a spoken command or a rustle of armor of even the presence of footsteps – it reaches a point when Tony wants to scream, just dig in his feet right in the middle of the room and grab one of them by the arm and scream as loud as he can, WHAT IS HAPPENING TO US? Or maybe not even words, just scream and scream and scream until his throat is raw and hurts as much of the rest of him does, just to hear some human noises, to give in to this new world he hasn’t found the answer to yet.

But he doesn’t. Because the tower is mostly deserted but not entirely, and one wrong noise could bring an attack. Because he’s not a leader but he was once a king, and a moment of weakness is a lifetime of doubt. Because he’s a Stark, damn it, and smile through the pain, Tony, just smile through the pain. So instead of screaming, instead of losing his mind or falling to the floor or crying or tearing at his hair or his chest or _they ripped out your heart, Tony_ , he grits his teeth, and he smiles.

“You’re one creepy son of a bitch, Edwards,” Barton finally says; they’ve cleared the first two floors of anything alive, bracing themselves against the heavy door for their charge to the next. “You know that, right?”

He snorts. “Thanks, Barton. You’re not so bad yourself. You know,” he adds when it looks like the other man might actually smile, “For an elf.” It’s a pleasant surprise when there’s no offense taken; in fact, he beams as though it’s a compliment. And Tony is pleased, intrigued, wants to poke Barton with a stick, open up his head and see how he works, because it generally takes years for him to break in his companions, to get them relaxed to his sarcasm just the way he likes. But here it is, five hours and twenty-eight minutes later, and he’s got the elf worn in like a pair of boots, soft and comfortable. It’s... the scientist in him itches to understand, to poke and prod and test the limits of the elf’s patience and why they’re set where they are. He wants to _understand_.

Because he’d understood Morten and Terje and Kainn, ten years with them and they were maybe friends, maybe brothers, understood them inside and out – but he hadn’t understood enough, not to keep them safe. _A terrible accident_ , he hears Obie saying, _a mistake in the calculations_. He hears it over and over again; those were _his_ calculations. _His_ men that paid the price. _His_ mistake. He hears every negative thought against himself, because then he doesn’t hear screaming and terror and death.

They open the door, and then he doesn’t hear anything at all.

* * *

The ogre roars and he can feel the noise in his bones, feel the way it makes them shake and grind. It’s then, for the first time in this endless day he’s having, that he wants to quit, wants to just give up and go into the darkness and never return – he’s scrambling for purchase barely three feet ahead of an ogre spewing rancid breath and bone-chilling snarls, trying to remember everything the Captain gave him by way of advice. It’s only been five hours and thirty-one minutes since he escaped death the first time. “Hug the wall,” he repeats under his breath, and skirts the far side of the room, past the window where he refrains from losing precious moments by glancing at the battle below. Unable to turn as sharply, the ogre slams shoulder first into the stones.

An arrow hits in the meat of the opposite arm and explodes; the beast thunders in pain and confusion, lumbering to a stop, before a red, white, and blue blur slams into its throat. The following roar is softer, hoarser, and the third sickeningly wet and gurgling as it rattles a breath around the second arrow that buries itself up to its fletching in the ogre’s eye. The creature finally drops, dead or close enough to it, but there’s no time to celebrate the small victories – not in the middle of a warzone. Tony is already casting the spells to light the wood of the signal fire when the Captain appears at his side, kneeling to retrieve the shield from where it lies. “The beacon is lit,” he says, and Tony waits for the relevance of the statement to make itself known. None does.

A single note of a horn sings out from the battlefield, long and loud, clear enough to drift over the chaos and clatter of metal and dying to reach even their ears, high in the tower.

The Captain’s knuckles are white where he grips the straps of his shield, white like his eyes and the sudden pallor of his face, white like Barton’s gritted teeth as his hisses something foul and angry in his native tongue before sprinting for the window. White like surrender. “The beacon is lit,” he repeats, but his voice this time is sad and so terribly human; he sags against the parapet, shield dropping forgotten to the floor with a hollow echo. Barton stands beside him, spitting curses down like arrows to join the fray; unlike his arrows they do nothing to turn the tide, and are lost to the wind.

The horn sounds again with a desperate, pleading cry that is cut off into silence before the note has reached its peak.

Tony feels the sound clench in his gut, feels it twist fingers into him and pull apart the skin in slow, agonizing seconds as the realization hits. “The beacon is lit,” he tries, has to lick dry lips that seize around words he can barely force out. The beacon is lit, but no one has come. Stane’s army has left them all to die.

He is spurred into motion, frantic, grabs at the window ledge like he means to go over; strong arms grasp his, pulling him away, and it is only recognition of Barton’s voice, not the words he speaks, that keeps Tony from fighting back – someone, he thinks, has to fight back. He yells himself hoarse in response to the victorious roar from the battlefield, and loses himself entirely as the tattered red and gold remains of the royal pavilion are shredded between two triumphant ogres. If he calls out for Pepper, it is lost in the flash of silver and loyalty that can only be Ser Phillip charging the field.

Whatever remains of the human army rallies in his wake, and for a moment of time too fragile to acknowledge it looks as though the tides of battle have turned. They cut a swath through the field, towards the tower, and there’s a whoop of victory when Ser Phillip launches his spear at the ogre who tore down the pavilion; it catches the beast in the neck, finding whatever measure of revenge it can for the fallen monarch. No sooner has the ogre fallen then the next spear take to the air, blossoming a weed of scarlet and metal from Ser Phillip’s armor. Frozen in surprise, his hands come up to tug uselessly at the spear through his chest, falling limp to his sides as he drops to his knees. One fist makes a torturous attempt at a final oath of fealty ( _My life, my honour, my spear_ , Tony can hear the words in his head, knows them by memory alone, _I am sworn unto yours_. _In your name shall I wrest glory from victory, and in your name shall I serve, unto death. By my death, I lay down my life to preserve yours, and by your death, I swear to avenge yours until I am slain.)_ before Ser Phillip drops to the dirt, lifeless.

The Captain – Rogers – loses his strength, legs giving out to land him on the stones beside Tony and Barton. “We should be there,” he murmurs brokenly, and Tony can’t help but agree – they should be down there, should have been down there, should have been with them when they—

Tony should have died with Pepper. He’d started her in this whole mess, after all. He should have been there with her to finish it.

There’s a pounding at the door.

There’s a pounding at the door and, for a breath, Tony can feel his ribs leap and catch as though a still-beating heart flutters against it. It _hurts_.

The pounding turns into a splintering and, as the Darkspawn swarm up the stairs, none of them reach for their weapons. Instead, Tony gropes a hand blindly over, finding grip at Rogers’ leg right above the ankle, and squeezes a faint acknowledgement. Barton hasn’t released the too-tight grip at his arms, hasn’t moved at all; he stares at the disaster below them, unable to look away. “In war,” Rogers whispers before the snarling and pressing bodies overtake them, “Victory.”

“In death,” Barton replies, but then there’s only sharp claws and ripping teeth and stabbing weapons and tearing pain and we should have been there that should have been us your heart tony they ripped out your heart burning pain flesh ripping away the end this is the end—

This time it’s not darkness that claims him, but a blinding light.

V.

He comes to and immediately wishes he hadn’t – the world lurches dangerously, the throbbing in his head reaches a deafening crescendo, and colors swirl around his vision like a fever dream without ever settling into discernible shapes. It’s all he can do to lean over the side of the mattress before he vomits, though there’s nothing left in his system at this point to come up; the few heaves and drops of sour spit leave his mouth feeling raw and dirty. “Am I dead yet?” he croaks, and the effort of speaking tears his throat jagged.

Someone hands him a rough mug that sloshes cold liquid down his hands when he drinks, not even taking the moment to care that it might have been poisoned – the two most recent attempts haven’t killed him, and he’s so _tired_ of it all that he almost wishes for a third. The cup, however, holds only water.

His stomach lurches again, rebelling at the intrusion, but Tony grits his teeth and breathes through his nose until it settles petulantly. Slowly, too slowly for his liking, the swirling maelstrom of light and color resolve themselves into recognizable images and the pounding in his head lessens to where he can actually hear himself think. He’s alive. Again, impossibly, he has survived.

The dancing swirls overhead solidify into a primitive thatched roof, slender beams overlaid with patchy bundles of grass, and the walls around are a mix of wood and mud; the building, more than a shack but not much else, is small and warm, but looks like it might come down if an inhabitant breathes too hard. He is stretched on a straw mattress against one of the walls with evidence of a small fire near his feet, and the bright slice at his left that knifes through his skull must be the opening of the door – it’s daylight, around noon, so he guesses he’s been out for perhaps twelve hours. He also, he realizes then, is not alone. “Hey, Tony.”

“Steve?” The blond smiles weakly, looking pale and drawn but also, unbelievably, not dead. “Where are we?” It’s not the question he wants to ask, not even remotely, but it’s the only one whose answer he can bear hearing. Later he will allow himself the time for the thick, choking questions that have settled in his throat like a stone, heavy and hard to swallow and threatening to suffocate him, but not right now. Right now he’s got enough through breathing around the pain in his chest and the pounding in his skull.

“The Wilds.” He doesn’t offer any explanation, only a simple answer to the spoken question, but his voice is soft and sorry like he _knows._ Tony wants to say something cutting and sharp in response, something painful and defiant because he doesn’t need anyone’s pity, not right now, but Steve’s voice catches on the next part. “We...” He sounds lonely, and lost, and Tony realizes that he _understands_. “We were the only ones to make it out.”

The gaping hole in his chest clenches, sending a fresh wave of dizzying nausea through his system as he fights to keep down even the few sips of water. _Barton_. He’d come to like the elf, more than he liked most people he found himself working with, and far more than he ever thought he could – he’d spent too long with the dwarves, picked up too much of their racism on top of their mannerisms. But somehow, by the end of it, they’d reached an accord; Tony respected anyone, elf or otherwise, who could sling arrows and insults that skillfully. Some of what he’s feeling must cross his face, some pain or horror or other telling emotion he doesn’t want, doesn’t want to think about, because Steve clasps a hand over his mouth as if to steal the words back. “Oh gods, no! Clint is fine, he’s just – he’s outside, but he’s fine,” and the tension in his body eases, just a little. “I only meant—”

“I know what you meant,” Tony snaps, because he’s spent more than enough time being vulnerable. Swinging his legs to the floor is a mistake, but he accepts the passing dagger of pain and swimming vertigo as punishment for being surly (and for Phillip and Fury and Pepper). After a moment of hesitation, Steve offers an arm for support – after another moment, Tony accepts it. It takes the both of them to haul him upright, and Tony thinks it feels almost as terrible as dying had. “Why am I naked?” He’s not particularly concerned, having left whatever shred of modesty he’s ever had somewhere in the north about a decade ago, but it’s something to fixate on that doesn’t feel like loss and pain and guilt.

A tossed shirt, followed by trousers, land around his neck with impressive accuracy. “Because your clothes exploded,” Clint drawls from the doorway, and Tony doesn’t bother to hide the grin that he is, in fact, as remarkably alive as they are.

“Exploded?” He calls the question from the vicinity of the neckline, tugging the shirt – it’s probably Steve’s, too large in the shoulders and chest – over his head and tying the laces over the flare of lyrium in his chest. It’s weaker than he’s seen it, barely a flicker. He’s _tired_.

The elf pauses, considering. “Combusted,” he corrects, choosing his words with similar accuracy to his arrows.

“Alright,” Tony accepts. It should startle him, should fascinate him, should pique that scientist brain of his to find out; eighteen hours and eleven minutes ago, it would have. It would have been a puzzle he’d itched to get his hands on, pull apart the vectors and variables until he’d laid them out before him like a map, reading back along the lines of organized chaos to an answer. Instead, all he feels is resignation, and a tiredness that aches in his bones. “How, for the record, did it combust?”

Clint shrugs. “Probably because you were still wearing it when _you_ exploded.” Another tilt of his head, almost birdlike against the wings on his face. “Combusted. Whatever.”

“Of course,” Tony growls as he yanks the trousers up around his hips, _of course_ ; a few vicious gestures and he’s tucked the extra fabric of the too-large shirt down, tying the waist snug against it. He’s only just got a hand free when Clint throws a small flask at him with a pointed stare. Oh, Tony thinks. Right. He downs the lyrium like a shot, ignoring the burn and tingle and the terrible taste that lingers in his throat, and he feels marginally better. Physically, at least. “Involuntary magical backlash?” It happens, but not to mages of his caliber – but it does, he supposes, make a sick sort of sense. He’s got a ticking time bomb of magic flowing through his veins, why wouldn’t his subconscious use one final act to blow it up? “So, how did we—”

“Healing spells.” A second elf materializes beside Clint, taking form where there was nothing before but bright light and empty space, and it’s only the lingering exhaustion that keeps Tony from flinching. This one is female, smaller and more delicate, but carries herself with a weight of presence that Clint does not; the skin of her face is also completely free of tattoos, which he knows means she’s been raised in the Alienage, and her hair is red – bright red. Unnaturally red. Like blood. “That same unconscious activation of your,” she gestures politely, but pointedly, “Called upon your knowledge of healing spells.”

Tony’s lips twist into a smirk. “I’ve never bothered with healing spells.”

She returns the expression with one of her own, but it’s wilder than his. More feral. “I believe that entirely.” There’s something about the sharpness of her tone, the way she smiles perfectly made-up lips like a weapon, that leads Tony to believe he’s going to get along with her easily. “It doesn’t matter. You know the spells, and you’ve got a reserve of lyrium with a direct line to that knowledge. You needed healing, so your body healed itself.” She punctuates the explanation with two fingers at the pulse point of Clint’s wrist, a flash of touch he almost doesn’t catch and then she’s gone, out of reach entirely. “Clint and Steve, too. When I got to the tower, I was expecting to find bodies.”

Clint’s grin does not reach his eyes. “You _did_ find bodies.”

“ _Your_ bodies,” she corrects, and her hand shoots out in as effortless a strike as it had the previous caress; this time, however, it connects with a painful sound against his ribs. But she shakes her head fondly as she says it, keeping the back of her hand resting a light contact against his side. “ _Len’alas lath’din_.”

Both voices soften. “ _Ma’arlath_ ,” and Tony clears his through pointedly before either can speak again. He’s not fluent in Elvish, not by a long shot, but he knows just enough for this to not be as private a conversation as they might believe. Neither seems concerned.

“I expected to find bodies,” she continues. “Instead I found an impressive amount of charred Darkspawn, and you sleeping away like a schoolgirl at a slumber party.” She raises an eyebrow at Tony, daring him to challenge her choice of analogy, but all he can do is smile. He’s always gotten along best with sharp-smiled redheads who don’t think he’s special. “Clint and Steve were just waking up.”

“We carried you out,” Steve murmurs shyly, and Tony hates the sudden, warm rush of gratefulness he feels.

“You were heavy,” Clint adds. Tony hates even more how grateful he feels for the distraction, for the chance to slip back into himself and leave any sort of emotion behind. “And naked.”

“I’m not sorry for that.” Standing comes easier now, and he doesn’t want to think that so much of it is the lyrium, doesn’t want to think that his functioning is so dependent on it. He even less wants to think that it’s because these people, who he’s only known one day and already lived and died with, are with him. It’s too much, too much to consider, and he’s still firmly pretending that everything is fine. “The naked thing. I’m a little bit sorry for saving your life, you ungrateful mongrel.”

The shyness of his posture is at war with the firmness in Steve’s voice. “We have to go back.” The atmosphere in the room grows heavy, thick with those questions that have been caught in his throat since he woke up, and if the expressions on the rest of their faces are anything to judge by, Tony’s not the only one choking on them.

“Steve, we can’t go back.” The female elf lays a hand on his arm, fingernails the same shade of red as her hair. “Ostagar is overrun.”

He leans some of his weight into her grip and the rest against the wall, folding his larger frame down so that he can more easily meet her gaze. “We can’t just leave them there, Tasha.” His eyes are soft but his voice is hard. Determined. “They deserve better than that. Fury, Coulson.” Tony feels each name like salt in a wound, grating against his skin – each pulls at mostly healed scar tissue just a little more, unraveling, until he feels like the flesh is going to be flayed from his bones entirely. “The que—”

“Don’t.”

Tony’s not sure who is more startled by the dark, dangerous tone of his voice – him, or the others – but the cold finality of it cuts Steve off before he can finish. Now Tony isn’t tired anymore, feels the opposite really – feels that itching energy bounding across his skin like electricity, feels it coil under his ribs. He knows that he needs to calm down, knows now what happens when he doesn’t, but this... this is something he refuses to acknowledge. Something he refuses to allow to have happened. “No. Don’t lump Pepper in with them. Pepper is... She’s not a soldier. She’s not— Pepper is—”

Fine, he wants to say. Pepper is fine. She’s fine, and definitely not dead, and probably worried sick about him right now, furious even, for staging his death like that again. She’s fine and she’s going to kick the ever-loving crap out of him when he sees her next, probably going to partake in some gleeful vivisection for everything he’s put her through. She’s fine, he wants to say, but he can’t – there’s a pressure in his chest that has nothing to do with the still-healing hole and everything to do with what was there before, and it _hurts_. Everything hurts, and _smile through the pain_ , he hears in his father’s voice, _come on junior, just grin and bear it_ , but for once he doesn’t listen, for the first time in his life he doesn’t care at all what his father would say, because it doesn’t matter. None of it matters, not anymore, because Pepper is—

Pepper is—

He doesn’t notice when the others leave; instead he lays his head in his hands, and he sobs.

* * *

Tony emerges from the hut slowly, allowing himself time to acclimate to the bright sunlight and the fresh air before he searches out the three forms who hunch over a map, backs politely situated to the door – _pity_ , his father’s voice snarls in the back of his mind, and he’s too worn out to tell it to go to hell with the rest of him. The voices grow louder at his appearance, not softer; he wraps indifference around him like an extra layer, insulates it with as much arrogance as he can muster, and stalks over to them.

Clint and the other elf – Tasha, Steve had called her – are conversing in a mixture of Common and Elven that he’s fairly sure is unconscious second nature, and nothing meant towards secrecy (but you never know, he considers, noting in the daylight that Tasha wears the skintight black leathers of an assassin); they look up as he approaches, but otherwise don’t immediately acknowledge him. Steve however, Steve looks as though he means to say something. It doesn’t matter what – Tony doesn’t want to hear it right now. He beats him to the punch. “Anthony Edwards,” he offers Tasha a hand in formal introduction, proud to notice that the shaking has stopped.

She raises an eyebrow at him, lips pulling thin in a half-disguised smile as though she fully expected him to say something different, and he doesn’t like the way she looks at him. Like she _knows_. “Natasha Romanova,” her skin is cool to the touch when she clasps his hand firmly, and her smile is sharp.

“Romanova?” He knows the name. Everyone in certain circles knows the name. “Like the Orlais Romanovas?”

 She looks him over, unblinking and unsurprised, but the grip on his hand tightens until it is painful; it takes every ounce of willpower to not pull his hand away and pull the rest of him back further – _don’t show them any weakness_ , he hears in his head. “I served in their house.” It’s not an explanation, but it is; he’s familiar with the family, and their reputation. Anyone within those circles can read between the lines, pick up on the unsaid, and she stares at him as if daring him to comment.

Meeting her challenge is easy – meeting her gaze is harder. “A credit to their family, I’m sure.” It’s the same doublespeak she gave him, nuances and undertones left like breadcrumbs only to the sort who know what to look for; she does. Something akin to agreement flashes in her stare, and she releases the painful grip she has on his hand. The bones of his palm still ache.

“It was a previous life,” she murmurs around the barest hint of an accent. It’s a sentiment he understands all too well.

Tension bleeds out of the group as Clint leans across Tony’s shoulder. “Now that we’re sorted, what’s the plan?”

“Kill Stane.” The words explode immediately before settling in his gut like a stone, hard and heavy. Tony thinks, in the moment of hesitation he did not need before making the threat, that he should feel some alarm in swearing to cut down the man who helped to raise him. But then he thinks of Pepper, of the gangly, scabby-kneed child he’d know, and the moment ends. Anger buzzes under his skin like wasps, the lyrium humming a discordant harmony, his entire being strung taut like a bow ready to find Stane and— Steve pats his arm awkwardly, and Tony reins it in as best he can; the vibrating calms, and the blue light crawls slowly back up his arms into his chest. “Thanks.”

Steve nods his acknowledgement without addressing it. “I agree. Stane is a traitor to the throne, and should be executed for his betrayal.”

“Very patriotic,” Natasha rolls her eyes at them, “but appallingly sociocentric. There is a Blight,” her easy tone is chastising, as though they were children, and Tony at least _does_ feel remarkably young and stupid for allowing himself to forget. “We must find the Archdemon and kill him before the Blight can overtake the land.”

“It scares me that I’m being the voice of reason here,” and it does, it _really_ does, because Tony’s entire life has been unreasonable; if his is the idea making the most sense than outlook for the future is already bleak at best. “But, I mean, what can we do? We’re four people – well, three people and _me_ , interpret that as you will – against an army. What exactly would we be able to do?”

“Clint,” the voice is maybe half Steve and half Captain America, and for all that Tony wants nothing to do with either of them a decent majority of the time, he can’t stop the part of his brain that’s _interested_ , that burns to know just how aware of each other they are and where the limits of each identity lie. “Do you still have the treaties?” Clint fumbles with the strap across his shoulder, handing the document case over with a sullen sort of silence that Tony gets – he hadn’t remembered they existed either. “What we’re going to do,” he answers the halfway rhetorical question, “Is gather an army of our own. Look,” he unfurls the treaties one by one; carefully, reverently, but they’re not paper, they’re skin of some sort. Hardier. “We contact the Dalish; this accord is a few centuries old, but even ancient promises mean something to them. They’ll honor the demand. We conscript the dwarves—”

“The dwarves won’t come.” Tony taps a finger against the treaty, smooths the edge, traces the half of the message written entirely in runes. “Not even with a treaty. Last we heard they’d closed Orzammar off to outsider entirely, some internal matter. They won’t be surfacing again this century, let alo—”

“So we _make_ them come.” Steve sounds earnest, sure of himself, and Tony nods and shrugs like he agrees when really he’s simply too tired to press the issue. “And the Circle—” This time, there’s no hiding the full-body flinch of discomfort. “What, really?”

All eyes are on him, judging, and Tony tries and fails to kindle a smile; there’s no explanation to be found in his borrowed life, and he’s not about to tell them the entire story. “I just... there were extenuating circumstances... No Templars, okay?”

“Tony, it’s a Blight.” Natasha pitches her voice somewhere at the level of soothing, but misses the mark entirely to fall flat across patronizing. “I doubt very much the Circle Templars are going to ignore that in favor of one Apostate mage.”

“You don’t know that!”

Losing the calm he’s maintained even through battle and betrayal, Steve ends the discussion with an exasperated noise. “ _Fine_. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” He spreads the treaties down over the map, starts marking various locations. “In the meantime we’ll reach out to the elves and the dwarves, rally as many as we can.”

“Redcliffe,” Tony speaks the words as soon as the though occurs to him, and instantly bemoans the lack of filtering; there’s no snatching the words back, not now, not the way they hang in the air like something important. “The Arl, he’s... he was friends with the queen. Never been a fan of Stane’s, either, and his armies weren’t at Ostagar. He’ll join us, if we ask.” Maybe, Tony amends. Probably. At least, not if he’s the one doing the asking. But that line of thinking leads to others, leads to wondering _why_ Redcliffe hadn’t been represented at Ostagar, especially since Pepper was there – something is wrong. He doesn’t know what, but he knows that something has gone very wrong at Redcliffe. “We should go there first. It’s central to the other three, but far enough from the capital that we could use it as a base of operations.” His reasoning for urging the march to Redcliffe is entirely self-serving, but the others are sharing glances and nodding along like he’s making a great deal of sense.

“Perfect,” Steve says, and it’s settled in the way that no one argues – Steve, or maybe the Captain, is their elected leader.

 “Lothering’s the closest town to us of any merit,” Clint traces their route against the map. “We can get supplies there before heading to Redcliffe. If we stay clear of the road, there’s a good chance we can make it before Stane even realizes we’re still alive.”

The name spikes another flash of rage through him, but he’s getting better at controlling it; now the humming keeps in his veins, the energy stays beneath his skin, and he feels stronger. Invincible. “When we do meet Stane, I want first hit,” Tony growls. “I owe him a few.”

He’s not alone, not with the way the others shift from casual to battle-ready at the name; Natasha brushes a thumb against the armband that he now knows contains any multitude of deadly poisons. “Get in line.”

“It doesn’t matter who ‘gets him,’” Steve says like he wasn’t the first to agree with killing Stane. “Because this isn’t about us.” They’re outside this time but it feels stifling around them, cloying, and Tony forces himself to breathe around the weight of the words; they sit heavy in his chest next to the weight that is Obadiah Stane. “This is about the kingdom. This is about Phillip, and Nick, and,” his eyes dart to Tony’s, “the Queen.” It doesn’t hurt any less this time, but it doesn’t hurt any more, either.

“By your death,” Tony recites blankly, “I swear to avenger yours until I am slain.”

Steve’s voice is low and full of promise. “And they _will_ be avenged.”

It’s Clint who breaks the hush that had fallen over the meadow, snorting a bark of laughter as he rears back, incredulous. “Really?” he all but crows; Tony all but chews a hole through his lip in his struggle to keep from joining in. “Who the hell even talks like that?”

“People who avenge,” is the lame retort, made even less convincing by the way Steve’s complexion has settled somewhere in the neighborhood of crimson, and his gaze in the neighborhood of their boots. The obvious embarrassment makes it easier to keep from laughing at him.

“‘People Who Avenge,’” Tony parrots, but quietly; he aims again for a smile to take the sting out of it, and must get close because Natasha looks remotely less like she’s considering strangling him. “As much as I like the sound of that, I think it’s a bit too long to embroider on our matching team apparel. We’ll have to find something shorter.”

It’s late afternoon now, the daylight waning with each moment they stand about chatting, and it’s probably a good three days still to Lothering – they need to get moving. “Alright then,” and Steve rolls the treaties into the tube with the map, clapping the lid on with more force than might be required; the sound is sharp, and draws their attention better than his words had. Seeing the paper slung across his shoulder, balanced atop his packs, has them shifting to take up their own. After, they look to him expectantly.

“Move your asses, Avengers!”

VI.

They’re still a full day or so from Lothering when they encounter the first of the refugees; a boy and girl, barely out of childhood, with a sleeping toddler the girl clutches to her chest protectively as they approach. “Mum and Da told us to run,” the boy tells Steve as he squats beside him, hand gentle on his shoulder. “Take Fergus and run, they said.”

“They’re meeting us in Lothering,” the girl pipes up, and Steve’s breath catches. Tony blanches.

“Of course they are,” Steve promises, and Tony wants to scream – he can’t know that, can’t promise something like that, not something this heavy. This _real_. Not to kids. He clears his throat, caught between anger and exhaustion and the lingering whispers of  _this is the world now, this is what the world has becom_ e that he doubts will ever truly leave him, but Steve turns on him with a sharp glare that actually brings him up short. Rising, he offers his hand to the boy. “I’ll help you find them,” he says softly, and the boy slips his small hand into his much larger one without hesitation. After a moment, the girl sidles up to his other side and laces her fingers through the unoccupied hand.

“Tony,” Steve calls softly, raising an eyebrow at him in challenge. “She must be exhausted... why don’t you take Fergus for a bit.” Clint hides a smirk behind the map, despite knowing full well where they are.

“Sure,” he smiles back, sarcastic, because he’s managed magic and monarchy and monsters and he’ll be damned if it’s something as simple as this that finally does him in. “C’mere, Fergus.” The toddler barely stirs as he’s readjusted into Tony’s grip, whimpering once before burrowing into his collarbone; he’s probably not even past his second year yet, small and delicate and vulnerable. His siblings are no better, maybe six or seven at the oldest, and the weight in his gut doubles – how many others, he wonders. How many others just like these three who didn’t stumble into their escort? How many others to come? He absent-mindedly shushes Fergus as he stirs again, bouncing slightly and murmuring quiet nonsense noises until he falls back into sleep. The others are staring at him, slack-jawed. “Are we going?”

Natasha smiles again, that dangerous,  _knowing_  smile, as Clint and Steve quickly recover from their shock – as though they fully intended for him to turn children away or drop the baby on his head or yell him into a scared silence.  _Heartless_ , he thinks – to resume their path parallel to the roads. “It might be easier,” Steve broaches, “for the children if we take the road.” He’s facing the elves, but Tony knows he’s addressing him.

He wants to agree – they’re kids, after all, young ones too, and they’ve just lost their home and their parents and their innocence to monsters and fire and pain. He wants to get them to safety as quick as the next, he _does_ , but roads mean people and armies and danger. So instead he smiles, reaching out to ruffle the older boy’s hair. “Nah,” he scoffs. “They’ll be fine. They’re brave,” and the children puff a bit at the praise. Steve scowls.

“Ar—”

“No more arguing,” he picks a direction and walks, hoping he’s right. “You’ll wake Fergus.” He can only assume Steve follows. The elves, already camouflaged leathers made even moreso by the addition of two days of road dust, disappear into the trees to scout ahead and cover their path. Even with the addition of the children, their passage is eerily silent. It makes it that much harder for Tony to bite back a yelp when Natasha suddenly appears beside him some twenty minutes later, sliding her hand lightly down Fergus’ sleeping back to keep him from waking. “Don’t  _do_  that,” Tony whines softly.

“So,” she ignores him. “Kids.”

He almost stumbles. “Is there a question buried somewhere in those two words?” Everything about the retort goes sharp in his mouth; he’s _tired_. He also knows that the elf knows more about him that he’d like, so he knows she’s not expecting superficial charm. It’s almost a relief.

“Didn’t think you had it in you,” she says evenly, not deterred by his increasing unpleasantness.

He freezes. “I am not my father.” It’s dark, darker than even he expected, low and dangerous. The air crackles with blue lightning around them; Fergus stirs, and it’s gone.

Still unfazed, Natasha strokes the sleeping child’s back again in a peace offering. “I’m just surprised, is all.”

“When Obie was – I spent a lot of time with my aunt. My dad was – and my mom was already – I was ten when Pepper was born,” he finally manages, giving away too much and not enough, fractured pieces of a fractured man’s fractured life, but she knows. She knows. “So, yeah. Kids.” Natasha purses her lips thoughtfully, a measured glance like she’d like to say more, and he leaps to distract the conversation away from himself. “Speaking of kids,” and she rolls her eyes. “How’d these two get here so fast?” He gestures back at Steve and his two new friends, both eagerly clinging to his hands as he tells them some sort of story or another. “I thought the whole point of a fortress like Ostagar was to keep things from hitting the farmland that quickly.”

She’s looking at him strangely – well, more strangely than she usually does, at any rate. “Stark,” and even though he knew that she knew, it’s still an ice-cold punch of panic and shock when she uses his real name, “Ostagar fell nearly a week ago. You were unconscious for four days.”

“Oh,” Tony says, and oh. Another portion of his life missing, time he’ll never get back – it shouldn’t bother him as much as it does, not a few days, but time is already running out for him and each moment is precious. Four days. Four days since Stane’s betrayal, since everything went wrong and the beasts were set loose on the world. Four days for the nightmares and fire and burning and pain and _they ripped out your heart, Tony_ to sweep through the farmland, through innocent, simple people, cut through them like they did at Ostagar. Four days of children, just like these three. Of death. Pepper’s body was long cold before he’d even acknowledged she was gone.

It’s been six weeks since the world went insane and he’s only been awake for three days.

* * *

Despite his claims to the contrary, insisting that he’s not even sensitive, Steve must possess some form of magic all his own because they _do_ meet Fergus’ parents a half kilometer from Lothering proper. There’s tears and hugging and happy laughter all around, and the grateful pair press a silver coin – nearly all they have – into Steve’s hand. He waves it away, ruffling the girl’s hair again and offering to escort the family all the way to the Temple where they will be safe and cared for. The woman clutches his hand and tells him that he is a miracle, their divine savior.

Others are not as lucky. The closer they get to the bridge across the river surrounding the town, the greater number of refugees they find. These are not the lost, displaced sort like their new friends; these are the wounded, the dying. The wandering orphans. The wretched. Tony tosses coins at them until his purse is gone, deftly lifted from his belt by Natasha, who shakes her head solemnly at him. “You can’t save everyone,” she tells him, and he wants to hit her.

“I know that,” he snaps. And oh, Tony thinks, oh. He does.

She takes his anger in stride, the understanding serving only to further infuriate him. “You can’t bring them back,” she says, gentle this time, and he can’t stand any more of her platitudes without snapping, breaking entirely, just exploding into fire and pain and rage, so he deliberately drops back into pace with Clint.

“How’re things?” he greets the elf woodenly, pleasantries forced. Clint only grunts in response.

“Trouble ahead.”

Steve appears at his other side, the children left with their parents. “What kind? Darkspawn?”

But Clint shakes his head. “If only. There’re worse monsters here.” He points out the flash of armor from the six men on the bridge; they’re stopping each tired refugee, each lost child, with drawn blades, demanding a toll. Those that pay are ‘allowed’ through to safety and warmth and actual human kindness, waiting oblivious just past the walls. Those who refuse, or who cannot afford it, are turned away with the looming threat of danger, of bloodshed, or the exorbitant fee is taken from the meager belongings brought with them, the last traces of home. “Vultures.”

Tony feels something snap in his chest at the sight, something heavy and hard that feels like six weeks and a ginger-haired, scabby-kneed child and a gruff voice that says  _a terrible accident, a mistake in the calculations_  and  _they ripped out your heart, Tony_. Feels like fire and ice and pain and release and power and helplessness and big and small all at once, like a jagged, broken piece in a final, rough-cut slot. It feels like anger and grief and denial and acceptance. It feels like flying. Before the others can realize to stop him, he’s cut through the crowd of refugees on the bridge, blue light skittering across his arms to electrify the air; the first raider’s hair stands on end as he approaches.

“It’s two gold sovereigns to cross,” he says bravely – or rather unwisely, it seems, as Tony’s already guarded face shut downs entirely, the lightning crackling menacingly.

“I don’t think so,” he all but growls, and it’s only the sudden weight of Steve – the Captain’s – hand gripping his forearm that knocks the shot wide, blue beam crashing into a small pile of the purloined goods. “There’s never been a toll to enter Lothering before.”

The man holds his hands out, apparently in surrender, but his stance is wide and battle-ready. “Well, there’s never been this many people trying to get in before, either. I don’t make the rules, pal, I only enforce them.”

The Captain’s hand closes painfully tight on his forearm, pulling him out of range should the other man draw a blade; Tony fights him, briefly, until the Captain’s cold voice cuts in. “You’re claiming to act under order of the Temple?” Before the man can speak he continues, steamrolling over whatever excuses may have been provided. “There are children here, and wounded – these are refugees of _war_ , the Temple would never demand a fee in exchange for aid. I don’t know whose will you’re acting on, but it’s not the Allfather’s.” He’s terrifying when he’s like this – Tony knows, having been on the receiving end of one of the Captain’s arrogant dressing-downs at least once.

“So,” he finally acknowledges the hand at his elbow, raising an eyebrow which the Captain ignores. “What you’re saying is that these lovely examples of humans gone wrong are nothing better than scavenging bandits?”

“You’re the only one saying that.”

  All traces of discussion are gone from the man’s voice now; his tone, like his stance and the hand at his sword, speaks of an imminent attack. The Captain still has a hand on the sleeve of Tony’s robe, but it seems defensive more than restraining – he’d unsheathed his shield at some point into the argument and tugged the mage backward in the same motion, pulling him just out of draw range. Clint and Natasha had also closed the distance, casually arranging themselves on the Captain’s either side. “Stand down,” he growls. Natasha picks her nails with one of the many knives she carries while Clint absently straightens the fletching on an arrow. “Does this really seem like a good idea?”

The man smirks. “There’s ten of us to four of you.”

 “Ten of you to four of us? That’s hardly a fair fight. Why don’t you go call a few of your friends,” Tony dismisses the bandits with a wave of his hand, a wake of electricity settling in the air like a net. “Don’t worry, we’ll wait here.” The bandits, all ten of them, bristle at his words and draw their blades. The Captain rolls his eyes with a muttered ‘Damn it, Junior,’ and tugs again, pulling the mage further behind him. “Stand down, Meathead. We’re Grey Wardens, you _really_ don’t want to piss us off.”

It has the opposite effect than he hoped: rather than cower in fear, the bandits smile greedy, shark-like smiles. “Oh? Grey Wardens, y’say? That’s better than any toll we could ask for – there’s a price on your heads. King says he’ll give 10,000 gold sovereigns to whoever brings you in alive.” He laughs. “20,000 to whoever brings you in dead.”

The Captain looks puzzled, or pained, it’s hard to tell – his eyes are whiter than usual, at any rate. “A price? For Grey Wardens?”

“You’re traitors to the crown, mate. The whole kingdom’s out for your blood.”

 All of them freeze, stiffen, a matched set of bloodless faces and gaping mouths – it’s as though they’ve all been struck, quite suddenly, and when the Captain finally speaks his voice is like ice, cold and fragile. “On what charges?”

 Tony’s voice is the opposite, fire and fury. “On _whose_ charges?”

For the first time in their exchange, the man looks unsure. “King Stane. On account of you lot being the ones who killed our good Queen Virginia, Allfather bless her, and fled at Ostagar.”

For all that he’s running on magic and miracles, the pounding of blood in Tony’s ears threatens to drive him to his knees – he can’t feel his limbs. He’s drowning. He’s drowning and being buried alive and there’s a weight in his chest and a ringing in his ears and the electricity isn’t shooting across his skin now, it’s inside, his skin is tight and small and tearing apart from within. He’s aware of the hand at his elbow squeezing, tighter, tight enough to bruise, and Natasha saying his name softly, perhaps from a distance, and in the very back of his mind, in the dark place behind the closed doors, he hears a warm and familiar voice that says _Give it up, kid. You know you can’t do this – This country’s better off with you dead than on the throne. Here’s what we’re going to do_ – before he comes back into himself with a snarl, and the built-up whatever that boils in his veins rockets from his hand again to hit the lead bandit square in the chest.

It burns through the two layers of armor, the flesh beneath, and the man standing behind him as well. Panic erupts into battle, the remaining eight men rushing to defend their claimed bridge and their fallen friends, but Tony had been correct in his earlier assessment: it wasn’t a fair fight. The remaining two, one clutching the shaft of an arrow that’s pierced his sword arm at the shoulder and the other limping on a foot crushed beneath the Captain’s shield, throw down their weapons. “We’ll leave,” the limping one moans. “We’ll leave, we won’t bother nobody again.”

The air around Tony is still superheated, crackling with electricity and anger. “You have three minutes,” he snarls. “If I can still see you, you’re dead.”

The limping one has already started his painfully slow crossing of the bridge, sniveling weakly, but the remaining man pauses, gazing impassively at them before spitting to the ground at Tony’s feet. “My da fought alongside you lot in the Great Blight... spoke like you were heroes. Queen Virginia were the best thing to happen to us since Howard died – she’s gone, and now we’re dead because of cowards like you.” He stalks off after his friend, catching up quickly and taking the man’s arm over his shoulders, ignoring his own wound to help their escape.

They haven’t even cleared the bridge before the Captain whirls, turning his previous fury and indignation on Tony, who, to all views, appears largely unaffected. “What the hell were you _thinking_?” he asks in Steve’s voice; Tony turns around in dismissal without seeming to have heard him. There’s already a bruise the exact span of his grip at Tony’s elbow, but his fingers tighten even further. “That was incredibly reckless, not to mention stupid—”

He jerks free, regretting it instantly when the world lurches around him, going fuzzy and dark at the edges, and he wants to sit down, _needs_ to sit down, his legs are maybe going to give out from under him, only the ground beneath him is tainted with the bodies of the two men he just burnt through like it was nothing – _I just killed a man –_ and suddenly the world is rushing away. His stomach heaves along with his steps and he can smell burning, charred flesh, and he doesn’t know what’s happening enough to have the words to convey that he needs to go, needs to go right now, can’t be here, not here not now— “Can we not do this right now, Rogers?”

“Cut the entitlement, Edwards—”

The bridge rumbles, the stones visibly shaking at the small explosion of magic, and Tony recoils. “I said _not right now_ ,” he growls because he doesn’t have the right words, voice gone rough and cold again, and either he’s finally managed to startle the other man or there’s something scary magical happening around him, he doesn’t stop to consider it, because Steve is standing there, shocked and still, so he makes his escape. He heads away from the bridge, away from the town with its lost souls and the men with their scorn and the cooked flesh of two men-not-monsters-but-men-like-you, heads toward the trees and the wild and the sounds of quiet and running water, and when he’s reached the clearing it’s all he can do to not drop to his knees in the grass – instead he continues all the way until he’s waist-deep in the icy cold of the river, gasping for breath that he just can’t catch around the crushing weight in his throat. The frigid water feels like knives against his skin, sharp and sudden, and when it finally reaches a peak, crush of water and crush of panic deep in his chest in warring equilibrium, he dunks his head beneath the surface to muffle all sounds but the disappointment in his head, so much like his father, that tells him he’s pathetic until he drowns it in sunshine and birdsong and blue sky.

“If you’re trying to kill yourself,” the wry voice comes from behind him. Tony whirls to face it, arms already raised uselessly – _electrical_ _currents and water_ , he reminds himself – and he hopes to the Allfather he doesn’t quite believe in this man won’t be a threat to him because he’s defenseless right now, completely, unless he’s willing to test just how far magic doesn’t follow the laws of science. He lowers them in the same motion, shaking hair from his eyes and spraying droplets of water like a dog, because the man sitting at the edge of the clearing is no threat, not to anyone, not with the cage he’s locked in. “You sure picked the wrong way to do it.”

The man is naked save for a blanket, which he wraps awkwardly around himself like a kilt as he struggles to his feet; he is otherwise unremarkable and soft, soft brown hair and soft brown eyes and soft features, but there’s something strange and guarded about him, like the cage is more to keep others out than anything in. “I’m not—” Everything that’s happened to him these past three days eight days six weeks a lifetime and it’s an unassuming man in a cage that renders him speechless. “I’m not trying to kill myself.”

“Not with that attempt you’re not; it’s nearly impossible to drown yourself, believe me.” When Tony just stares, half in the river and gaping like a fish, he blinks owlishly. “I meant to say ‘good, don’t.’ Why are you in the river?”

And he doesn’t have a good answer to that, not anymore, not since the panic and the pounding and the oh gods _oh gods_ feelings have washed away with the cold. “I – I just killed a man.” That realization sparks something, higher thought and reemerging alarm, and he runs a hand through his sodden mess of hair weakly. “I actually killed someone, oh gods, I’ve never – and he was sort of a bad person, it’s not like I’m going on an end of the world cross-country killing spree, but I’m not – I mean I am, but I’m not – I _killed_ a man.” He can feel his knees going weak and he slogs to shore, dropping heavily into the grass. The man doesn’t say a word. “I’m not a killer,” Tony whispers fiercely, more to himself and the screaming in his head.

“Neither am I,” the man replies softly, soft like the rest of him.

“Why are you in a cage?” Tony finally asks when he’s feeling more like himself.

The man falters, shrinking inward until he is as small as he is unobtrusive. “I killed a man.” It’s probably not an appropriate response to laugh, but Tony does anyway; the man joins in, rueful and flat. “Well, _I_ didn’t, it’s complicated. Bruce Banner,” he offers his hand through the bars, which Tony gladly accepts after a moment of shock.

“Bruce _Banner_?” He knows that name, that name is infamous, a whisper of warning with both the mages and the dwarves – it used to be only for his research, but now it was more for the accident, and _oh_. “I’ve read your journals, brilliant stuff, your work with golems and transmutation is unparalleled... and I’m really intrigued by the way you sometimes get angry and turn into a hulking green abomination.”

“...Thanks?”

“Tony,” he says, smiling. “Tony Edwards. So seriously, why are you in a cage?”

Bruce awkwardly tugs his hand away, withdrawing from the bars in the same motion. “I told you, I killed someone. More than one someone, I – Lothering doesn’t have a dungeon, with everything going on they just put me here for the Darkspawn to take.”

“No, I meant why are you _still_ in the cage?”

Bruce yanks his hair in frustration and paces the one-two steps of his prison. “Because I _killed_ people,” he hisses, and his eyes flash unnaturally green. “I deserve to be locked up, I deserve to pay for what I did—”

“What Big Green did, you mean,” and Bruce glares at the interruption. Tony sighs, trying to find the words to explain the leaps in logic his brain is taking. “That accident, that should have killed you. It didn’t. There’s gotta be a reason for that, right?”

“Not everything happens for a reason, Tony,” but his voice has regained some of the strength from before, which Tony takes it as a good sign.

“Number one rule of science and magic, Bruce my friend: equal and opposite reaction, balance of the elements and all that. Instead of dying, you broke all physical laws of the universe – c’mon, that’s awesome.”

He nods grudgingly. “It’s a little bit awesome.”

“It’s _way_ awesome.” And Bruce is smiling now, softly, so Tony gestures once more to the cage. “You’re still in the cage because you _both_ feel bad about what you did, you ever stop to think about that?” and by the way his eyes suddenly widen, no, he hadn’t. “So here’s the offer, and I’m only going to make it once: stay here and wait for the monsters to carve you up and eat you for dinner which, believe me, is not fun, _or_ you can accept that there’s probably a lot you can do for the world and come with me. Your choice.” When Bruce doesn’t immediately make up his mind, like it’s even a choice worth debating, Tony grins. “I lied about this being the only time I make that offer. I’m going to keep talking until you give me the answer I want.”

“And go where?” Bruce laughs. “If you hadn’t noticed, we’re sort of in the middle of a Blight right now.”

He gestures at himself, which probably doesn’t help as he’s still a bit damp and generally pathetic-looking, hardly an image of competence. “I’m a Grey Warden. The plan is to take out the Archdemon, stop the Blight, save the world. Oh, and kill the King. You in?”

“I take it all back,” Bruce pauses as the door swings open easily. “You picked a _hell_ of a way to do it.”

VII.

They make a quick trip back the bridge and the bandits’ stash of stolen goods to find something for Bruce to wear aside from his threadbare blanket (“I think these may have once belonged to a rather overweight woman,” he says when he rejoins Tony, who’d stood on the road just beyond the bridge and refused to go further, just downwind of the smell of death and guilt and _don’tlookdon’tlookdon’tlook_. Tony only pats his cheek fondly.) before they go in search of the others. Not that they’re necessarily hard to find, not with the way the town is abuzz with excitement – warriors, they drove off the bandits, _real_ warriors, they’re here to keep us safe – and the way they crowd around the open door of the inn like they might catch a glimpse. Tony has to shoulder his way through a solid block of civilians just so he can get close enough to get one of the elves’ attention.

“Clint!” he calls, because the last thing he wants is someone who will ask how he’s feeling, but it’s Steve’s blond head that appears past the crowd; his mouth tightens when he sees Tony, still angry, but all too quickly softens in defeat and he reaches through the throng to drag them inside. “Hey,” Tony greets them nonchalantly, dropping into the chair next to Natasha. She raises her eyebrow at him, which he pointedly ignores. “This is Bruce. He wants to join our merry band of misfits.” It should probably bother him, the way that Clint and Natasha instantly reach for their weapons, but honestly right now he’s too tired to care. “Don’t worry, he’s alright,” and he helps himself to Clint’s now abandoned plate.

“Banner,” Natasha greets him warily, but her shoulders loosen and her hands are flat on the table, no knives in sight; Clint mirrors her actions, but not before slapping at Tony’s fingers when they reach for his glass. “We lost track of you after Honnleath.”

Bruce tenses. “The Grey Wardens have been keeping tabs on me?”

She keeps her voice even and measured, completely unthreatening, and Tony wants to roll his eyes because there is nothing about her that _isn’t_ threatening, no matter her voice. “We monitor all potential threats to the realm—”

“Wait,” Tony interrupts her with a glare. “ _I’m_ a potential threat to the realm?”

The only reaction that he’s been heard is Clint’s snort of laughter, quickly stifled, and the pause in Natasha’s speech. “But I assure you, it was for your own protection. Knowing your movements allowed us to keep them hidden from the Templars,” and Tony and Bruce share a wince of solidarity.

“So I’m no longer considered a threat?” he asks as he sits, back to the wall and a table between him and the elves, and Tony recognizes all too well the actions of a man on the run.

Natasha doesn’t break eye contact. “There is a greater threat now,” but it’s an overly cryptic way to say that yes, the Grey Wardens still think he’s dangerous. Well, most of them anyway – Tony doesn’t, not even a little, and he helps himself to the chicken at the edge of Bruce’s plate (“I’m a vegetarian,” he whispers to the other mage, not wanting to insult the servant who’d brought it to him, and Tony happily shovels over anything green in exchange.)

“Nice to meet you, Bruce,” Steve breaks the uncomfortable silence by offering his hand, and Tony forgets that he’s supposed to be angry with him, that he’s pretending everything is fine and that he absolutely does not care about anything at all, these people included, because Steve is a remarkably good person. Even Bruce relaxes, and flashes the same soft smile he’d worn in the cage. “I’m Steve. So Tony says you want to come with us?”

Bruce shrugs. “I don’t have anything better to do at the end of the world.”

“You...” His voice drops to a whisper; the room is far from crowded, most people loitering outside the building itself, but there’s a barkeep and a cook and a few patrons that are staring at them, wide-eyed and interested. “You know what you’re getting into, right? You know what we’re trying to do?” Bruce nods casually, mindful of their surroundings, but, if anything, Steve looks even more unsure. “And you still want to join us?”

Bruce takes an extra-large bite of the apple he steals from Tony’s plate. “He threatened to keep talking until I agreed.”

“Welcome aboard, then,” Steve tells him, signaling his understanding with a quiet noise of sympathy that has Clint relaxing further; even Natasha smiles around her suspicion. It’s a further effort to remind himself that no, he doesn’t care about these people at all. “We’re glad to have you.”

“I’m not,” Tony grouses into a mug of water because no one will let him have anything stronger, but Natasha only pats his knee in sympathy.

Clint toasts him from across the table. “Don’t worry, Tony. No one’s glad to have you either.”

* * *

For the brief period of rest they take, and for the first time since they set out on their mission, everything is going according to plan. They have a plan, first off, and more of a team than they began with. They’re getting along, mostly – Steve and Tony have forgotten that they’re supposed to be mad at the other, Clint and Natasha have temporarily put aside that Bruce is more of a risk than an asset, and Tony manages to not so much apologize as get across that his erratic moods are something to ignore entirely. Their stomachs are full of food like their packs are full of supplies, proper clothing and gear purchased from the much-accommodating proprietor for Bruce and Tony, and, for the entire three hours they allow themselves, it seems as though they might actually be able to pull this off.

And so, of course, it all goes wrong after that.

The whispers of the crowd swell with a mixture of panic and excitement when the first of the men appears in the doorway, an imposing silhouette that nearly fills the frame, and freezes, blocking the exit; they had already been on guard at the approach of heavily booted footsteps, but the sudden lack of a way out has hackles raised all around – Steve’s knuckles are white as he balls his hands into fists, muttering a stern ‘stand down,’ that Tony’s not sure is directed toward them or the Captain. Natasha and Clint, at some wordless communication, reposition themselves slightly in front of Bruce – for his protection or for everyone else’s, Tony’s again not sure, but if his eye color’s rapid shift into the green end of the spectrum is any sign it doesn’t much matter. After a tense moment wherein all parties are attempting to seem anything _but_ tense, the man fully enters the room; his previous position is filled by two others, equally as broad.

He wears blue and brown livery over his plated armor, and Tony murmurs a quick ‘Stane’s colors’ in Steve’s ear before the man’s booming voice cuts through the silence. “Are you the group that disposed of the bandits at the bridge?” Tony lets out a shaky breath, relaxing his guard only slightly at the unexpected turn of events. The others do not seem as relieved.

“We are,” Steve manages a nonchalance that has Tony envious, barely acknowledging the knight with a nod of his head, but his hand gives him away – his arm twitches, fingers clenching as though holding his shield, but he makes no motion toward it.

The two who flanked him in the doorway enter, followed by eight more all as heavily armed and armored as the first, and the man smiles. “Well then, _Grey Wardens_ ,” he smirks, and Steve echoes the Captain’s earlier frustration with a swiftly hissed ‘damn it, Tony,’ “By order of King Stane, you have been named traitors to the throne and are to be brought to justice for your crimes.”

“ _Acting_ king, you mean,” Tony sneers, and this time Steve does reach for his shield (“Would you _shut up_ ,” he grumbles as he does, slamming the edge into Tony’s shin. To his credit he doesn’t yelp, but he does break the staring contest with Stane’s guards to scowl and retaliate ankle-height kick to the side. Natasha glowers. “ _Da’vhen_.”).

Rather than take offense at the words against Stane, the knight smiles as he and his cohorts draw their blades. “The only justice for traitors is death.”

No sooner has the knight spoken than Natasha slides into action, hooking her ankle against the leg of the table and flipping it into a makeshift barrier, all but throwing Tony to the ground behind it; Clint has drawn his bow and fired before it even hits the floor, and as the arrow drives home in the eye slit of a guard’s helmet, Tony yet again reflects on how terrifying their kind can be. Slightly slower to react is Steve – the Captain? – who launches the shield low to connect with the knees of the foremost guard; he drops with a shriek of pain and the stomach-turning sound of shattering bone. It takes about that long for Tony to process what’s happening, precious seconds spent staring dumbly and marveling at the speed he will never have and the lethality he wishes he didn’t, before Clint barks “Get Banner!,” and only then does he jerk his head away from the action to check on the other mage. His eyes are pure green at this point, shining like emeralds, and he’s shaking with exertion to keep himself in control.

Tony scoots over to him, wincing at the sound of impact against the table, and lays a soft hand on his arm. “Hey Jolly Green,” he speaks soothingly, the same way he had to Fergus, and the feral green eyes lock with his. “Having fun?” A muted snarl is the only response. “Yeah, stupid question, I know. We have a party and don’t even invite you. Rude.”

Natasha ducks behind their blockade as a blade slices through the air where she had previously been standing. “I really don’t see how you could call this a party,” she tells him, catching the guard’s arm on the downswing and using his momentum to bring him to the ground before stabbing the knife in her hand into the gap between chest plate and helmet. The man gurgles, and Tony swallows the lump that forms in his throat at the sight of the blood – _smile through the pain, Stark_ – to grin at her.

“Well, clearly you’ve just never been at the right sort of parties.” She rolls her eyes at him before whirling back into the fray, and Tony chances a peek over the top edge of the table to gauge their success. He recoils nearly instantly as the Captain collides with it, thrown backwards by a well-placed punch to the jaw. “Need a hand, Cap?”

“Not from you,” he growls, only it’s not quite as insulting when he pauses to kick against the guard’s chest. “Stane needs you dead, Junior,” and oh, Tony thinks. It suddenly dawns on him that Natasha and the Captain are _protecting_ him, because he – **_Oh_**. “Now he gets it,” the Captain scoffs at Tony’s look of terrified realization. “Keep your head down and let other people do the work for you, Allfather knows it’s what you’re best at,” he orders gruffly, but the scorn from their first encounter is absent. Tony weakly obeys.

Bruce’s skin is an alarming shade of green, rippling over his frame as though boiling beneath the surface, and hot to the touch when Tony sags against him. The gravelly voice that is-not-Bruce repeats sardonically, “Having fun?” (“I didn’t even know he could talk,” Bruce admits to him later, voice sounding small and pathetic against the darkness. “No one’s ever been stupid enough to try.” “I think I should be insulted,” Tony replies, “But I’m not sure for who.”), and Tony laughs hoarsely.

“You know me,” he quips, skin itching with something that is, for the first time since he woke up, entirely unmagical – he’s been Tony Edwards for so long now, so entirely, that he’d almost forgotten he was ever anyone else. “Just sitting back and looking pretty.”

A large green hand reaches out to slowly and solemnly pat his cheek. “Tony very pretty,” he assures, the same wry tone that he hears from Bruce painting the harsh voice into something almost human, and it’s almost hard to believe that this is the creature that leveled a town and all the people in it. _Almost_.

A booming laugh and the sound of shattering glass cuts over the rest of the battle noises, and Tony shrugs off the large green hand and the Captain’s orders to peer back around the table to find that the cook has inexplicably joined the fray. He is laughing raucously and wielding a small wooden mallet like a lethal weapon, brawling with his bare hands more than once, and overall appears to be causing more damage to the décor than anything else – but he is also, somehow, turning the tide in their favor. Tony watches Clint wince as the mallet comes down with a resounding _dong_ on a guard’s helmet, winces himself when the cook follows through with a knee to the guard’s nose, and quite suddenly it goes from being eleven against three to four against four (“Hulk would be done by now,” he grumbles almost mournfully when Tony points out the evened playing field, but makes no attempt to move from his seat on the floor. “I know, pal,” Tony tells him. “But you and I are what they call ‘liabilities.’” “Hulk not liability,” his voice is sharp with affront. Tony stares at him until the shoulders droop in defeat. “Hulk maybe liability. _Indoors_.” He spits the last word out like something foul, and yeah, Tony can sort of see what he means; he’s not really sure what the Hulk is exactly, aside from the proverbial bull in the china shop. _And we’re all the teacups_ , he thinks.)

The Captain announces their victory by hauling the table away from them one-handed and setting it back, albeit wobbly, on its feet. Natasha is at his other side, one hand on his shoulder and the other at his arm, and as he leans down onto the wood she wrenches sharply; there’s a sickening _snap_ and a hiss of breath that has Tony feeling light-headed, and then Steve’s very human, very pained “Ow.” Clint is retrieving what arrows he can from the corpses, checking their alignment before replacing them in his quiver or tossing them to floor if they do not pass muster – in a testament to their craftsmanship, most do. Tony itches to get his hands on them.

The broken glass crunches as the cook sets a chair upright, and the tension in the air resurges as both elves snap their focus to him; neither has put away their weapons, and the Hulk rumbles a low, warning growl in his direction. Steve waves them down with a single glance. “Thank you,” he approaches the stranger, injured arm held stiffly at his side. “For your assistance—”

“The pleasure was purely mine,” he interrupts with the same thunderous glee as he fought, crossing the room in large strides to clap Steve companionably on the back; he winces, but holds his ground. “It is an honor to fight beside such noble warriors as yourselves.”

“Yeah,” Steve’s voice sounds breathless with pain. “Yeah, that was... that was pretty great.”

The cook manages to lower his voice something close to contrite. “I apologize, shield brother. I was swept away in our victory. And,” his voice returns with volume, “I am told that I am sometimes unaware of my own strength. I will exercise greater caution in the future,” he promises, earnest and eager, “so as not to endanger our companions. Especially,” he shoots a less-than-subtle glance toward Natasha and Clint, “the Elvhen.”

“The... future?”

The man forgets himself, laughing heartily and clapping Steve on the back again. “You did not think that I intended to abandon you so soon? The Beast yet lives! My brother,” he clasps Steve’s shoulder tightly. “Our journey has only just begun.”

Steve glances helplessly at the others, his face a mix of pain and bewilderment, but he nods politely. “Well, thank you... I’m sorry, who are you?”

“I am Thor,” he beams, face split into a wide smile, “Son of Odin.” Off to the side, Clint whistles and mutters a quiet but incredulous noise of assent before busying himself with his arrows. Tony tugs the back of Steve’s shirt.

“Steve, a word?” When he turns to face him, Tony lowers his voice to a whisper. “He’s obviously crazy – and I’m not talking crazy like the rest of us, I mean like _clearly deranged_ —”

Steve shrugs, rubbing the back of his neck with his uninjured hand; he seems torn between agreeing with Tony’s assessment and disagreeing with him on principle alone, because all they seem to do is disagree. “We need all the help we can get. Plus, you saw what he did, he wouldn’t be entirely useless—”

“I’m not talking use, I’m talking insanity – Steve, he just said that he’s _Thor_.” The words click in his brain around the same moment that he shoves around Steve’s shoulder, stumbling over debris toward the stranger. “Point of clarification, when you say Thor, do you mean _Thor_ Thor?” He gesticulates with hurried, punctuated movements. “God of lightning and storms and oak trees? _That_ Thor?”

Possibly-Thor smiles beatifically. “I have never understood your kind’s insistence on calling my brethren as gods – we live and breathe, as you do. But yes, in simplest terms,” he nods his head regally, “I am he.”

The gravity of the moment is broken by the dubious snort that Tony does nothing to hide. “Okay then, buddy,” and he slaps Possibly-Thor on the back, biting back a wince when his hand collides with a wall of solid muscle. “Summon a storm. Make it rain.”

Possibly-Thor ducks his head as he blushes sheepishly. “Alas, I cannot,” and Tony wants to laugh again because of course he can’t, _of course_ , the world has gone insane and dragged this guy down with it – not that he can blame him, really. “My Father has stripped me of my powers and banished me to Midgard as atonement for my transgressions. I am human.”

“ _Fine_ ,” he mutters, because he’s really only putting on a show of reluctance – he sort of likes Thor, or at least his brand of crazy, and he’d prefer anything over being the one behind the decision-making for this whole operation; plus, he isn’t much liking the way that he doesn’t hate the other Wardens, and liking it even less the way they don’t hate him. _Pity_ , reminds the voice in his head that sounds like his father. _Weakness_ , adds the voice that sounds more like his own. He drowns them both out with a brilliant grin. “Alright, Blondie,” he slaps Claims-to-be-Thor on the shoulder again, “You’re with us.”

“It is a great honor to be admitted to your ranks. They will sing songs of us, my friends,” comes the reply, and a feeling of discomfort skitters under Tony’s skin at just how _serious_ he sounds – _spoke like you lot were heroes_ , the man on the bridge’s scorn echoes in his ears, and he gulps around the lump that has settled again in his throat because he’s _not_ a hero, never claimed to be one, but he was once a king and he’s apparently now a legend – and air doesn’t come easily because he can’t breathe around the crushing mantle of expectations that he’ll never live up to.

“Sure,” he manages, brushing off the lingering terror by brushing off the situation entirely, waving his hand casually and returning to help Bruce, now much smaller and less green, squinting in confusion until Tony slips his spectacles onto his face, to his feet. “Whatever, Blondie.” Steve glares at him for his sudden nonchalance, but forgoes the lecture to help Clint dig their packs out from behind the table.

“We should probably leave,” he says, rubbing his neck again as he surveys the damage to the room (Claims-to-be-Thor assures him for the third time that all is well, but the innkeeper glares at them with an increasingly murderous expression until Natasha offers the jingling contents of a full purse – Tony realizes belatedly that it is his, but can’t bring himself to object; it’s too small in here, and he’s not sure if he means the room or his skin, just that they need to _go_.). “Stane potentially knows that we survived Ostagar. If we mean to make it to Redcliffe, we’d best head out immediately. Thor,” and it sounds so easy, so natural, not a trace of skepticism as he addresses the man-possibly-god who has joined them, and Tony wants to choke off a laugh of disbelief to even out their reactions – instead he adjusts the strap of the pack he’s carrying, tugs a loose thread on his sleeve, and ignores Natasha’s look that _knows_. “If you have any business to take care of before we do, we’ll wait for you in the clearing by the river.”

“Many thanks to you, Steven, but I have all that I require here.” He ducks into the kitchen, literally ducking through the frame built for a man much smaller than him, and returns with a leather satchel and a blacksmithing hammer that looks small in his grasp, but Tony knows he couldn’t lift if he tried. “I was preparing to take my leave of these good people and retrieve Mjolnir at last; I know not if my exile has ended, only that the people of Midgard must be taken under my protection.” (“Mjolnir,” Bruce repeats in Ancient Tevene, wiping fingerprints from the lenses of his glasses with the edge of Tony’s sleeve. “I sort of hoped I was imagining that part of the conversation.” “Don’t even start with me,” he responds weakly. “I can already tell that Steve is about to promise to help him find his hammer.”)

“I think we’ll be needing the assistance, divine or not. We’ll help you. Retrieving M... Mjolnir?” When Thor smiles encouragingly, he continues. “It’s the least we can do for your actions today, not to mention your aid in defeating the Archdemon.” The matter is essentially settled, and he moves on. “We’re ten days from Redcliffe. We’ll leave Tony and Bruce – no offense – there when we head to the Circle, and pick them up on our way to meet with the Dalish. We’ll save the dwarves for last.” Tony opens his mouth, but is completely ignored in an exasperated huff. “I _know_ , Tony. The dwarves won’t come. We have to at least _try_.”

“If you would let me finish,” he starts, but the vitriol fades from his voice just as quickly; it’s not worth it. “If Thor’s been banished down here with us common folk, his hammer would most likely end up at the Thunder Temple above Haven. It’s only a week or so past the Circle Tower, we could easily swing up there before heading back to the Dalish.”

Steve’s expression softens. “Thanks, Tony.”

It itches, the sincerity. The gratitude. “Now, I’m not saying I believe him. I’m just saying, that if he _is_ Thor and if he _is_ temporarily mortal like the rest of us, that’d be the best place to look.” Steve’s expression remains unchanged.

“Alright team, here’s the plan: Redcliffe first, then the Circle – Tony, Bruce, we’ll figure out what to do with you when we get closer. If the pass is open, we go to the Thunder Temple to see if Mjolnir is there – if not, we head North, to Orzammar—”

“I thought we were saving the dwarves for last?” Natasha appears all but silently between them; Steve does nothing more than move his shoulder to better accommodate her.

“If the pass to Haven is snowed shut, there’s no telling how much longer before Orzammar becomes unreachable. We’ll have to chance it.” She glances back toward Clint, making eye contact that stands in for a conversation, before slowly nodding. “Anyone else?” There’s no pointedness to the remark beyond that he’s made it; there’s only one person who’s spent their time butting heads with Steve on nearly every matter, and it’s Tony.

“Just say the word,” and somehow it’s all running smoothly again, almost too easy; Tony can’t help but ruin it – it’s what he _does_. “Oh Captain my Captain.” He salutes with abject insincerity, earning an aggravated glower as Steve turns to the others in a move that is meant obviously to ignore him.

“Alright Avengers!” It should sound ridiculous, but it doesn’t. “It’s time to save the world.”

**Part Two**

I.

By the fifth night on the road they have yet to see any trace of Stane’s men, or of Darkspawn. It’s clear that the Blight hasn’t spread this far to the east yet, and it seems they’ve had a similar stroke of luck with the capital; even if Stane knows they’ve survived, he doesn’t know where they’re heading. (“He’s expecting for us to come at him head on,” Tony explains to Steve on their second night out from Lothering, unable or unwilling to sleep away any more of his remaining life and instead joining whoever stands guard. “He’s expecting _me_ to come at him head on. He thinks I’m reckless and stupid.” “You _are_ reckless and stupid,” Steve mutters, but at some point the insults have become something friendly between them.)

Despite the quiet, there’s no respite from the paranoia, from the constant watches, the lack of a camping fire – they don’t even fully set camp each night, for all that they’ve got bedrolls and tents, often doing little more than dropping to the ground in an uneasy sleep as the first watch tugs a blanket or cloak over them. That same feeling, the prickle of unease at the night and the silence, has Tony unable to settle in the small clearing they’ve chosen for the night. Instead, he tosses his blanket at Clint. “Take a nap, Barton. I’ve got first watch.”

Clint smiles tiredly in thanks, an absent gesture, and he looks about as distracted as Tony feels. “Yeah. Thanks,” but he makes no motion to even sit down, and Tony can’t blame him. There’s something... _off_ about the stillness of the woods tonight.

“Alright,” and he tucks the second blanket into Steve’s grip – he looks nearly ready to collapse, running down on extra watches ever since leaving Lothering, two a night and often staying up with Tony or Natasha through theirs as well. Unlike those two, however, he’s without the magical boosts or multiple decades of minimal sleep to balance. “I’ll be the one to go ahead and say it. It is _creepy_ quiet tonight.”

A small sigh, and Clint relaxes minimally. “Glad I’m not the only one thinking that. I thought I was just being paranoid.” He shrugs, stiffer in the shoulders than he used to be; they’re all carrying too many nights of hypervigilance and rough ground. “More paranoid?”

“There should be... well, _anything_.” Bruce’s voice is tight, and Tony knows that the Hulk is either feeling restless or protective or some combination of the two, testing his limits of the mental cage Bruce has got him in, straining to come out and – it’s only safe to assume, given his track record – protect them. “Owls, crickets... we’re in a forest, and there’s just—”

“They have all gone silent.” Despite his over-abounding enthusiasm following the brawl of their initial meeting, Thor had remained particularly reticent since they’d left the town proper – unaccustomed to mortality, he had told them with a wistful smile. Mourning lost love, he later confided in Bruce (who, in turn, confided in Tony), but refused to elaborate. “As though there is a predator.”

Steve wearily releases the straps that secure the shield to his pack. “Okay. I want double watches tonight – Tasha, you and I will take the first shift—”

“You’re about to fall over.” Tony proves his point with an elbow to the ribs that has Steve swaying on his feet, when normally he would barely even notice. “Natasha and I will take first shift, then Thor and – you good, Bruce? – Bruce will take the second. You and Clint need to grab some sleep, then you can take the third watch.” Steve opens his mouth, Tony assumes to disagree because that’s all they ever do, disagree, but snaps it shut when another wave of exhaustion hits. “Seriously. Steve. Get some rest.”

They’ve barely had time to lower their gear before Clint and Natasha still, sharing a glance before taking their weapons back up; Tony doesn’t hear anything, but that doesn’t come as much of a surprise to him (he doesn’t sense anything either, which is apparently one of the few perks of becoming a Grey Warden, but that’s either a mark of a threat beyond Darkspawn or simply one more thing he’s failed at). Steve sluggishly follows suit, and they form a loose circle with each facing outward; both Natasha and Bruce are sure to stand within arm’s reach, braced to take the weight should the recoil from throwing the shield knock him back.

A twig snaps to his left, and Tony stares futilely into the darkness. Thor appears at his shoulder, face grim with determination, and he tightens his grip around the handle of his blacksmithing hammer until the leather wrappings squeak in protest. “Something is out there,” he comments, voice casual; he pitches it low, but does not whisper. There’s an answering growl from the forest, this time to the right, and Tony turns to see – nothing. There is nothing to be found in the darkness but mists and echoes, and he is hunting a ghost.

The low rumble comes again, closer now, _so_ close and he can see the glint of eyes reflecting from only feet away – he sees it coming, but still knows he cannot react in time. He’s running on magic and miracles and pure dumb luck, has survived two invasions now and _they ripped out your heart, Tony_ all for some starving forest predator to be what finally does him in. Time slows, and the beast charges.

A solid weight of muscle and fur hits him low in the torso, thankfully below the wound in his chest, but with more than enough force to knock him back and down – his knees crumple and his shoulders collide with the ground in a painful move that he knows he’ll be feeling for days, if he has days after this. The gleaming eyes from the forest belong to a nightmarish face, short and square and nothing but sharp edges. There’s a snap of teeth only inches from his face, breath hot with the scent of old meat, and he can’t see anything beyond the jaws that could easily crush his skull but he knows the others are already moving to attack. “Wait,” he yells, “ _Wait_ , don’t—”

His voice is lost as the beast moves again, teeth white against the black sky and the black face, flat black tongue reaching out to swipe roughly over his mouth; Tony spits in disgust. The squat face now pressed nearly to his is attached to an equally squat body, square and compact, heavy with muscles that ripple beneath a tawny hide. It’s a mabari hound, one ear nicked from a fight and fur painted with heavy black markings and runes, and though he’s half-coated in mud and looks half-starved, there’s a leather harness across his shoulders that speaks of one time domestication.

“What manner of creature is this?” Thor asks from somewhere above them, and Tony shoves ineffectually against the hound’s chest.

“It’s disgusting, that’s what it is.” Another elbow to the chest and the mabari still does not move, but the tongue pokes out for another lick, this time right over his eye. “You’re disgusting. Get off me,” and then the weight is pulled off as Steve and Thor each take hold of the harness and tug, hands moving quickly to escape the snapping jaws as the animal suddenly turns on them. They drag the hound away as Clint drags Tony to his feet; no sooner is he up then the hound is back, leaning heavily against his side. It stands nearly as tall as his ribcage, and wriggles with excitement. “I hate you,” he says unkindly, but his hand reaches to the animal’s ear to tweak it fondly. “I don’t know where you came from or how you got here, but really. Go away.” If anything, the stump of a tail only wags faster, and the happy bark echoes jarringly against the otherwise silence of the clearing.

 “So,” Natasha manages to barely hide a smile behind her hand, “Not under attack then?”

Another tug at the dog’s ear. “Not even remotely. Dummy’s only dangerous if you’re a butterfly, and even then he couldn’t catch you.” Dummy snaps playfully at his hand with jaws that could shatter bone, and Tony swats the muzzle away while scrubbing the opposite hand across his eyes. “How’d you find me?” he asks. He knows there won’t be an answer, but the pretending is far easier than giving in to the impulse to cry into the dog’s fur – the last time he’d seen Dummy was the fire and the pain, standing over his fallen master with his side slashed open, teeth ripping into the beasts as they came closer, and then a sharp whimper and the darkness came and he’d woken up alone.

“Mabari are incredibly loyal,” Clint explains, kneeling down and offering a hand for Dummy to sniff. He does, sneezing at the unfamiliar scent, but then the wriggling of his hind end increases and he butts his skull happily against Clint’s palm. “After they imprint, they follow their master until death. I’ve never actually seen one before,” Dummy grins, lop-sided around a broken canine tooth, and belches, “But it seems that their ferocity has been overstated.”

“Don’t be fooled.” This time the affection is obvious in Tony’s voice; he wraps a fist around the leather harness, tugging Dummy closer, and the dog happily obliges. “The stories are true – Dummy’s just... broken, I guess. He came from a big litter. Mabaris generally only have one or two pups at a time, and Dummy’s the runt of four. We think he was deprived of oxygen or something, I don’t know, he’s—” He was Tony’s shadow in the north, the only relic of his previous life that he refused to leave behind; he was easy enough to explain away as a mage’s companion, given his lack of battle training, and none had thought to question. “How’d you find me?”

Steve drops to his knees without hesitation, some mix of brave and stupid that Tony is entirely underprepared for, and Dummy attempts to curl two hundred pounds of muscle and bone into his lap like a puppy. “He must have tracked you all the way to Ostagar,” he scratches bare fingers along the underside of a jaw that could easily shear his hand from his wrist, and Tony halfway wants to pull Dummy back except they both look so _happy_. “What a good dog,” Steve croons to the hound, his voice dangerously soft.

“No, he is a very bad dog – _bad dog_ , Dummy!” Dummy completely ignores him; Steve doesn’t however, responding with a hardened glare that would be frightening were it not for the massive weight of an animal slung across his chest. “Don’t look at me like that,” and this time Dummy acknowledges him, ears low and face crestfallen, and he gazes mournfully at the disappointment in his master’s voice. He lets out a low, miserable whine, and Tony’s voice cracks. “That’s not even fair.” (“Now we know your weakness,” Clint grins wickedly. “Puppies and kids. How very badass of you, Edwards.” “Yeah, well, I take in strays,” he shrugs. “You know, the really pathetic ones. That’s how I got you,” but it’s somehow less than convincing with Dummy slobbering on his leg adoringly.)

Another quiet word of praise from Steve sends Dummy into a full-bodied wriggling motion.

“Whatever.” Tony’s not entirely sure what to do with Steve now that they’re doing more than disagreeing – not when sometimes he thinks they might be friends, when they smile or share jokes back and forth, and definitely not when he’s so _good_ that Tony wants to throw something just to bring back the silence between them. “Everyone shut up and go to sleep. Dummy, you’re keeping watch with me.” The hound licks Steve’s face in farewell before reluctantly clamoring free of him, and Tony wants to scream.

Instead, he stalks off into the silence and settles himself against a tree; Dummy sprawls in the dirt behind him and, he hopes, listens for anything in that direction – he’d known, once, what the phrase ‘keep watch’ meant, but it was a lifetime ago. Possibly two. He wraps himself in his robes as he watches the others wrap themselves in blankets and sleep, four lumps in the shadows cast from the moon and the lyrium in his chest that could almost be logs. Natasha circles the camp once before squatting beside him, but she approaches from the front so he can see her coming; Tony figures it’s the closest he’ll ever get to a friendly gesture. “How are you doing?” she asks, and she’s probably the only one of them he can’t ignore or deceive with his answer – she _knows_ , knows too much and knows him and knows when he’s lying.

“I—” Honesty feels like a foreign language on his tongue, and he doesn’t know which truth to tell her. _I’m tired_ , he thinks. _I’m scared. I’m dying. We’re all going to die. I should have died at the mines. At Ostagar. Ten years ago. I am not my father. I am not a hero. I am not a killer. I am – I don’t know who I am anymore_. “I have no idea what the hell I’m doing,” he finally admits.

“I don’t either,” her voice is quiet when she lowers herself to sit fully beside him. “Believe it or not.” He doesn’t, not even a little bit, but whatever scrap of self-preservation he has knows to keep that fact to himself – she reads his face, and the corner of her lips turns up in a wry smile. “I was trained to take orders, keep secrets, and kill people. That’s all I know how to do. Saving lives? Not exactly familiar territory.”

He knows the feeling. “Never thought I would say this, but thank everything for Captain Asshole being with us.”

She doesn’t laugh at the nickname, not that he expected her to, but she doesn’t roll her eyes or call him an infant – her usual reactions – either. “You need to tell him,” and the words are like a punch in the gut: unexpected, and impossible to breathe through.

“Tell him _what_?”

 “Stark,” and he purposefully doesn’t look at her; he can feel her eyes on him, focused intently in that particular way of hers – Cool. Calculating. Assessing. He doesn’t know quite what she’s looking for, but he knows when she finds it. “We’re five days out of Redcliffe. You need to tell him before we get there.”

The world is coming to an end around them, and somehow that’s a more comforting option than the thought of becoming Tony Stark again. “Cap already knows,” he dismisses, but her stare does not let up.

“Steve.”

“So you mean to tell me those two don’t talk to each other?” He absolutely does not manage to hide his grin this time, the pride and victory that uncurls across his face when she’s drawn up short as if this were a thing that had never occurred to her. He is, he reminds himself, a genius after all, though he’s often the first to forget it.

“I—” When she bites her lip, she looks suddenly younger and far less lethal. “I don’t know. I know that Steve sometimes doesn’t remember the things that happen as the Captain, but I—” She trails off into a contemplative, wondrous expression, and he can relate. He wants to understand, wants to know the boundaries of what is Steve and what is the Captain, wants to take them apart and find the connections – he wants to know where the two spill over or if they’re contained, separate, and wants to turn both personalities over in his hands until he knows exactly how they work. “He doesn’t know,” Natasha decides. “Steve is – if he knew, he would have confronted you about it by now. You need to tell him.”

“Can’t I just, you know, not?”

Every last trace of the youth and vulnerability vanishes in her glare. “He needs to know, if only because you were the one who essentially elected him the leader. He needs all the information available in case it comes up in the future. Also, Steve trusts you—”

“Steve is an idiot.”

“You’re his _friend_.” That’s what finally shuts him up, skin itching because he can count on one hand the number of people who have considered him a friend in his life – it’s the same number of fingers, and more, that he counts to mark the number of lives he’s been personally responsible for destroying. “As your captain, he _needs_ to know. And as your friend... he deserves it”

He sighs, defeated. Aside from the logical explanation he can easily ignore, he knows this is not something she’ll let him run from. Not this time. The tree at his back feels more and more like a corner he’s backed into. “Next time I talk to him,” he promises, and she nods.

II.

He manages to avoid Steve and, by similar effect, talking to him for another five days. It’s difficult, especially among such close quarters of small numbers, but not nearly as difficult as the conversation in store when he finally does. It’s only when they crest the last of the hills, the village of Redcliffe sprawling across the valley between them and the lake, and the castle looming imperiously behind, that Natasha appears between him and Bruce. The other mage takes an immediate and none-too-subtle step away from Tony, who hisses a complaint at the abandonment. There’s a moment where it seems like he might stay, before Natasha raises an eyebrow and Bruce correctly interprets the dismissal; with a final glance of apology, he hurries a few steps to catch up with Thor.

“Three hundred and forty-seven,” she smiles prettily at Tony, all tooth and terror, and pats his bearded cheek. “That’s the number of ways I could drop you unconscious without even breaking a sweat.”

He’s about sixty percent sure that she’s not being serious. About planning on hurting him, that is; he is one hundred percent sure that the number she’s quoted is an accurate one, and equally as sure that she’s thought about every one of them in delighted detail. “Understood,” he swallows the lump in his throat.

Her grin sharpens, but she steps aside. “Good boy.”

It’s easy enough to catch up with Steve, to tug at the hem of his shirt for his attention; there’s a moment where he looks confused that Tony’s speaking to him again, followed by a moment where he looks halfway between angry and relieved. It’s that moment that almost has Tony waving him away with a nevermind, because if Steve hates him now then it’s only going to be worse after – but here, right in sight of Redcliffe Castle, of Rhodey’s keep, he hasn’t got much of a choice. The truth is going to come out whether he wants it or not. “Can we talk?”

Steve’s eyebrows furrow in confusion. “Sure?”

“In private,” he ignores the questioning glance, and slows his pace to nearly a stop until the others are just beyond the turn of the path. Murmuring the words to shield their conversation from being heard, because he knows better than to think either of the elves will ignore a conversation they haven’t been invited into, he takes one last breath to manage the sentences he’s been turning over for nearly a week. Instead, in the silence, he fumbles for words that he just can’t reach. “Before we get to Redcliffe,” it’s a beginning, but not the one he needs, “I feel like I should tell you. In the interest of full disclosure and all—”

“Allfather save us.” Steve rests a hand on Tony’s shoulder like he wants nothing more than to shake him, or shove him backwards over the cliff. “Do you have a price on your head? Is there going to be trouble?”

“Something like that.” He’s not sure what it means that the first guess leans toward him being a wanted fugitive. “No, nothing like that.” If there is one thing that Tony is not, aside from a hero or a king or a good man, it is quiet; still, the words he’s practiced over and over again the past few days stick in his throat and refuse to budge. “The arl. He’s a friend. Sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“He _was_ a friend—” _My closest friend. My brother. Better than a brother because he wasn’t blood_. “But he was possibly led to believe that I’m, well, dead.”

Steve nods his head like he understands but his voice says otherwise, flat and distant like he’s questioning exactly why they’ve even begun talking at all. Sometimes Tony thinks Steve would prefer to hate him. “And how could he _possibly_ have come by this conclusion?”

Tony Edwards takes his final breath. “It might have been from when I faked my death to abdicate the throne.” The words hang heavy in the air, just vague enough to buy him another few seconds, but Tony can see the exact moment when realization hits because Steve’s eyes widen and he takes two staggering steps backwards.

“You’re,” and he snatches his hand away as if he’s been burned. “You’re _Tony Stark_.”

His ribcage squeezes tight with panic, clenching around the hollowed spaces ( _they ripped out your heart, Tony_ ) and he wants to dig the lyrium out of his chest, peel off his skin, wants to tear himself in half because he feels like he’s going to die from the pressure of it all. “Shut up, Steve. Just shut _up_. No, I’m not.” One hand reaches out and find the fabric of Steve’s shirt again, an anchor to keep either of them from running, and he wants to pull them back in time to when he was just Tony. “I mean, yes, I am. But no. I’m still just Tony, okay? No titles, no ceremony – damn it, Steve, a week ago you threatened to strangle me if I didn’t stop talking and _nothing has changed_.”

Everything has changed. He can see that in the way Steve goes to disagree before clamping his jaw and nodding, giving in without a fight – all they do is fight, or used to. “See? This is why I didn’t tell you. I knew you would be weird about the whole ex-king thing, and I don’t – I’m not exactly king material, if you hadn’t noticed.” And maybe he’s imagining the tightness of Steve’s cheek that means he’s trying not to smile, but maybe he’s not. “Besides, it’s not like it matters anymore. You can’t be a king _and_ a Grey Warden, especially not during a Blight.” _Probably_ , he thinks – if there’s no one else, they might call on him. Especially now with Pepper—

Steve opens his mouth, freezes, and tries again; it’s another phantom pain in his chest, the way that he’s suddenly censoring himself around Tony. “I don’t,” and even his voice is different. It’s not often that his speech reflects his fisherman upbringing, the roughness of the Amaranthine coast, but they hear it in stories around the fireside when they’ve managed to relax as much as they’re able; it’s only when the situation is unfamiliar that his voice is the bland, even tone of the capital city. Like now. “I don’t quite know how to handle this,” he admits.

“I’ll make it easy for you, then,” Tony snaps. “If you start bowing or standing on ceremony, I will set you on fire.” There’s no imagining this time, the way a smile tugs at the corners of Steve’s face – smaller than usual, forced at the edges, but it’s an effort toward normalcy that Tony is all too grateful to return. “Seriously, Steve, I will set you on fire with my mind.”

“Got it,” and there’s no relaxing the set of his shoulders, the way he’s strung taut like a bow, drawn to the limit to not drop to his knees or run away or gods only knows what else, but the panic leaves his eyes at the agreement. He takes a step forward, back into the sphere of conversation rather than practically running away, and it’s not anywhere near the level of comfort that they’d had even this morning, but it’s a start. “This is just... not where I expected the conversation to go.”

“Seriously?” It’s easier now, to tamp down the thrill he gets at feeling like the smartest person around. “You seriously didn’t know? Do you and the Captain just like, _never_ talk?” But apparently _yes_ seriously, and he will be all too happy to gloat his victory (or concede his defeat. In all honesty, he’s forgotten the point he was trying to prove, only that there was one and he now has his proof) to Natasha when all of _this_ – this is a conversation that feels more like a minefield, and a second life that feels more like a nightmare – is said and done.

Steve’s frown is sudden and sharp. “The Captain knows?” Tony’s seen enough of those expressions aimed his way to know that this one isn’t; instead, the down turned lips appear around mention of the Captain. “That actually explains a lot.” And despite desperately wanting to ask, to _know_ , Tony doesn’t – this is fragile territory for the both of them, the truth. Steve must see the longing in his face, because he offers a truce in the shrug of his shoulders. “Normally we do – talk, that is – and I’ve always been at least partly aware of what he does, but recently there’s been this... it’s like a fog, and I can’t remember anything of what happens when he takes over.” It’s answers to questions Tony hasn’t even thought to ask, and cannot hope to understand. “I thought that I was going crazy.”

The admission tastes like guilt in the back of Tony’s throat. “Yeah that was... that was probably a little bit my fault.” He has more questions that he’s itching to ask, but the conversation has turned as tenuous as his self-control and he doesn’t think there’s enough of whoever he will be at the end of the day left to hear the answers. He can’t ask if Steve is okay, not without acknowledging that he’s probably not; can’t ask if they’re still friends without admitting they ever _were_ , and allowing himself those vulnerabilities are one of the few luxuries he’s never been able to afford.

“I’m not at all surprised,” he deadpans, but there’s a shy smile creeping out around the words – _this_ is something they can do, fighting just for the sake of it, and Tony smirks against the rush of gratefulness.

“Shut the fuck up, Rogers.”

* * *

When they catch up to the others their numbers have grown to include a young boy talking animatedly at them. Wordlessly Tony and Steve slow their approach – he can’t be more than eight years old, dark circles of sleep deprivation beneath his eyes, and he keeps his distance like he doesn’t entirely trust them despite the way he’s currently gesturing them toward the village. “Those are my friends,” Bruce speaks soothingly when the boy flinches at their approach, and the boy visibly relaxes. “Tell them what you told me.”

“They came a few nights back,” the boy wipes a hand across his eyes with the forced determination of someone desperate not to cry; it’s an expression that Tony is all too familiar with, especially over the past weeks. “When we was asleep... They must have came from the hills, because they hit the inn first. I heard the screaming, and I—” The hand at his side balls into a fist as the other swipes ineffectually at the angry tears that pool above his cheeks, and Steve moves to comfort him; the boy recoils with shame in his eyes and steel in his spine. “I hid. Down in one of the boathouses, until the sun came up.”

“Who are they?” Steve tries again, voice calm in the way only he can be. The boy shrugs.

“I never saw ‘em. I just _ran_.” The boy is swiftly giving in to despair, words falling broken at his feet, but he’s only a child – far too young to blame himself for hiding from the monsters that come at night. _This is the world now_ , Tony reminds himself. The weight sits heavy in his stomach with all of the other failures he’s swallowed.

Bruce kneels close to the boy and somehow it’s Bruce that he leans into, accepting the handkerchief to wipe his face clean. “Are they still down there?” he asks, but the boy shakes his head.

“They only come at night,” he whispers, like speaking of them louder might change it. Steve and Natasha share a glance – it’s two hours to sundown, and Tony can read the offer of help in every blink. This time, he doesn’t argue with Steve about it: if no one else was going to, Tony was about to do it himself. They _need_  to help, these people _need_ them to help, and he owes it to Rhodey; after all, these are Rhodey’s people, and if Rhodey is—

“The castle,” he asks, breathless. “Has there been word from the arl?”

There’s enough of an answer in the solemn, slow shake of the boy’s head. “A few went to check after that first night... they never came back.” The words feel like they’ve been punched right out of Tony, disappearing into bruises wrapping around his ribs, but Clint fills the silence with a mixture of Common and Elvish lamenting their loss of hope if the castle has fallen. Noticing, and now knowing, Steve squeezes Tony’s shoulder awkwardly.

The next time he speaks, his voice has lost all of its softness from before – it’s more the Captain than it is Steve, but even he sounds strained, as though he’s barely hanging on to his control. Maybe they don’t speak to each other, but the Captain is obviously aware of what’s being said. “How many are left in the village?” the Captain asks, because Steve wouldn’t – wouldn’t want to hear the answer. Tony doesn’t either.

“Thirty-four,” the boy doesn’t hesitate, or guess; he knows the exact count of what remains of a town that used to hold close to two hundred, possibly more. “And then seven from the Temple.” Forty-one. In just over two days, the town population has been decimated down to nearly an eighth of what it once was; he wants to throw up. “After that first night, they took as many as they could – women and children, mostly. There wasn’t enough room for the rest.” He wipes ineffectively at his eyes again. “There’s enough room now.”

Bruce looks up at Tony, locking eyes. He’s still kneeling beside the boy but looks awkward, as though he wants to reach out in comfort but doesn’t know how, and instead holds his hand in the air somewhere in the vicinity of the boy’s shoulder. The aborted motion brings his hand to his hair, twisting in frustration. “We have to help them,” he says quietly. “We can’t just leave them to fend for themselves.”

Natasha sighs, her eyes soft where her voice is hard. “We don’t know what we’re up against, and we have less than two hours to the next attack.” She holds herself like a prisoner, trapped by the speech she’s about to give: the ‘bigger picture,’ she told Tony once, and he hasn’t forgotten. Bruce hasn’t either, if the flash of his eyes from brown to green is any indication, and his shoulders set into an argument. “These people aren’t warriors—”

“Exactly!” No sooner has Bruce risen to his feet then Clint and Natasha move for their weapons; Thor moves closer to intercept the boy, face set in quiet determination. For now, at least, Bruce hasn’t seemed to notice. “They aren’t warriors, they’re just _people_. They are going to get slaughtered unless we—”

“Hey guys?” Tony motions for their attention, but he’s barely paying any of his own. Instead, he eyes the village and the valley beyond, turning them over in his head; he plays them like a puzzle, taking the pieces apart and finding the connections. Fishing village. Blacksmith. Annual boar hunt. Deep basin. They slot together like an answer.

Soft eyes, and a hard voice. “We can’t save everyone,” Natasha reminds slowly, regretfully, like it’s become her mantra.

“We already haven’t.” Bruce’s voice has gone low and gravelly, more monster than man. Behind them, Tony can hear the quiet noise of the Captain releasing the catches on his shield and he hates that, after all this time together, they still can’t trust Bruce in any of his forms. “Forty. One. I’m talking about _forty-one_ people, who are the only ones left of the two hundred we couldn’t save.”

“There will always be people we couldn’t save,” Natasha speaks slowly, soothingly, like to an animal rather than a friend. “We are trying to stop the Blight, to save as many as we can. I don’t want to see these people die any more than you do, but—”

Tension cracks like the tendons in Bruce’s jaw, which undulates beneath the skin like it’s going to erupt. “If you say ‘the bigger picture,’” the threat punches out of his throat like it’s obvious he would much rather do with his fist, both actions barely curtailed, and there’s a distinct grinding noise from the back of his mouth as he digs down into his molars, “I swear to the gods—”

“ ** _Guys_**!” He’s finally got their attention as they fall into a broken silence, gulping in deep and angry breaths of air; behind them, the others stand in various stages of battle-ready. Tony grins. “I have an idea.”

* * *

Clint whistles a long, low note of casual awe. “I’m not sure if this is the craziest idea I’ve ever seen, or the best.”

It’s ten minutes until the sun is scheduled to set and they’re as ready as they could hope to be, as ready as they could _possibly_ be given that they don’t even know what they’re facing. Despite initial reluctance, distrusting of the strangers who came fully armed and armored into the village before they began shouting orders, the townspeople had rallied under Tony’s guidance and, once he’d sketched his idea out to them in the dirt, been quick to assist. There was never any doubt that the people of Redcliffe were anything other than swift and efficient workers – in just over an hour they’d fortified the town to Tony’s design, managed a short meal and a prayer to the Allfather to ask a blessing for luck (that Tony had stumbled his way through, managing only half of the familiar words before losing them entirely in the growing discomfort on Thor’s face. “I still do not understand why your people make us into deities, he tells Tony quietly, under his breath and the watchful eye of his father’s sculpted visage, like he hopes to find an answer. “Everybody needs to believe in something,” Tony admits, startled like he’s only just now come to realize this himself). After a final run-through the women and children had retreated again into the Temple, the younger set fawning over Dummy and slipping him scraps of leftovers, and the men had joined the Wardens in the clearing right beyond the doors.

Tony smirks at the half-delivered praise, eyes doing a final glance over the set-up to ensure everything is in place, and waves at the Captain where he stands at the crest of the hill; there’s a flash of a wave in response, and a bellow from the shores of the lake as the Hulk announces his impatience. “Can’t it be both?”

Five of the villagers are with the Captain, positioned at the road the leads into the village (“If they come from the hills,” Tony explains, “then we need to bottleneck their passage into the valley. Ditches, walls, I don’t care – we want one path into and out of Redcliffe, and we want the largest of our group to meet them at it. Tasha, Thor, and Cap... that’s you. You’re good leaders, and good in close quarters.”) behind a network of hastily dug trenches lined with wooden stakes, armed with boar spears. Another three stand with Clint and Tony just outside the barred doors of the Temple (“Clint and I are better at a distance, so we need the best shots among you to hang back with us. Anything gets past the group on the hill, drop it. Anything gets across the barriers, drop it.” He draws a few small circles in the dirt with one of Clint’s arrows, a rough outline of the village with a few more lines, and nods at the small group of men who volunteer themselves. “We set the barrels here, here, and here. Anything get close, signal me or Clint to light it up.”), clutching compact hunting bows and not enough arrows between them. The Hulk is stalking the shores of the lake (“Jolly Green, if anything comes out of the water... unmake it.” When he’d rumbled his pleasure at the thought and headed for the water, Tony lowered his voice. “Less structures near the lake, and less action. Minimize the collateral damage, you know?” It was a few silent, shocked moments before Clint offered his grudging respect with a suspicious “You are not entirely terrible at this whole ‘taking charge’ thing.”) and they can hear a soft splashing in the distance as he attempts to skip stones.

“You ready?” Clint asks from his elbow, steady and serious, and raises an eyebrow and the corner of his mouth in a smile; even through the loom of panic and uncertainty, Tony can’t help but return it.

“Not even a little bit.” The responding smile goes a little crooked around the edges as he runs the plans over in his head again, checking the calculations – he hears Stane’s patronizing _a terrible accident_ on loop and turns the possibilities every way they can and every way he can think of, applying even impossible variables because he refuses to let these people be another forgotten number he couldn’t help. “We’re probably all going to die.”

“Wow,” Clint’s expression brightens. “Great pep talk, Edwards.”

“I know. I inspire myself.” And they are both smiling as the last of the sun dips below the horizon, an unnatural silence falling along with the darkness; Tony’s used to the dark and the quiet, there were never crickets or birds or wind in the mines, but over the past weeks he’s come to associate those sounds with safety, with sunshine - their sudden lack is unsettling. Along with the silence comes a prickle of hairs on the back of his neck and along the length of his arms, but this one is more familiar: magic. It settles over the valley like a whisper, subtle and tingling, and were it not for the sudden spark in his veins from the lyrium in his chest he’d likely never have noticed. “Here we go,” he whispers to Clint, who nods in acknowledgement.

A flash of sickle green from over the crest of the hills draws aborted shouts from the villagers, and then there is _nothing_ – no wind, no crickets, no quiet sounds where the lake and the shore meet, no huff of air from the Hulk or squeak of leather as a had tightens around a hilt, no static of magic in the air. Tony releases a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, and the noise of the exhale is almost deafening.

At the very corner of his vision, the sudden flash of a white figure in the dark draws his attention – someone, _something_ , is inside the barrier, coming down from the inn.

“What _is_ that?” Tony asks, squinting his eyes against the dim lighting to try and make out any details of the pale figure (humanoid, but it doesn’t move like a human – staggering, delayed movements, something off about the carriage of the limbs but he can’t quite put his finger on it) that attempts to shamble its way down the slope. He can’t tell much of anything beyond that, but it’s enough; he raises an arm and gathers the blue lightning in his fist, ready to fly, when Clint’s hand at his wrist draws him up short.

“Tony, wait—”

“Alyse?” the villager standing beside them chokes on the word, stumbling forward in disbelief. His voice is thick and wet, sounding like losing and finding all over again, and the bow drops from shaking hands to clatter against the stones; he takes another step forward, then another, just past the fire and into the emptiness beyond. “Allfather help me... Alyse!” He throws an arm out, unconsciously mirroring Tony’s stance, but there’s only desperation left in his grasp. Alyse stops, just at the base of the hill, hand extending in response, body jerking as she hears her name and she uncurls her spine painfully straight, shuffling closer, right into the circle of firelight, and oh.

 _Oh_.

They are under attack by the reanimated corpses of the fallen villagers.

III.

“Get back!” Clint releases both warning and arrow a second too late; it buries itself in the man’s neck just after Alyse, or what was once Alyse, buries her teeth in his throat. Her enraged shriek, entirely inhuman, is echoed from the hills by a chorus of others – they are quickly drowned out by the Hulk’s bellow of challenge from the shores (“You tell ‘em, Big Guy,” Tony whispers, and despite everything Clint flashes a grin in response.). There is a moment of total silence after that, a complete void of anything, any movement, and Tony takes the quiet second to inhale.

Then all hell breaks loose.

There is a scream, something ragged and broken, from the top of the road; following too close on its heels is the snarling, the shrieking – sounds that Tony can only equate to pigs feeding at the trough. He swallows panic and terror and the vomit in his throat. A shout of warning comes after, reassuringly human, and then the unmistakable sounds of battle from the party at the hilltops. “It’s too dark,” Clint growls, body tense and knuckles white where they grip his bow. “I don’t like not being able to see them.” Tony doesn’t need to ask which ‘them’ he means – it’s not their enemy.

“I have another idea,” tension coils like electricity under Tony’s skin, “but you’re not going to like it.”

“I didn’t like your _first_ idea—”

“You loved it. Listen, Clint, here’s the plan,” and he focuses on the wellspring of energy in his chest, ignoring the way it skates under his skin and the way it makes him feel too large and too tight, focuses on the lightning until it pools in his hands, building the pressure until his joints are screaming to release it – he opens his eyes and his hands are glowing blue. “You see me?”

“Yes?”

“Good. If you ever _can’t_ see me, get inside and bar the doors. Save what villagers you can,” and he pauses for a shrug to the two men standing beside him. “No offense, but we need at least one of us to make it through this and stop the Blight.”

“You’re right.” Clint looks decidedly uncomfortable. “I don’t like this plan. This plan sounds like you don’t intend on surviving it.”

There’s a ticking time bomb in his chest and another of inevitability in his veins, and it’s all he can do not to grab Clint by the shoulders and _shake him_ , shake and shake and scream in his face because _this is the world now_. “Zombies,” he throws the word and his arm behind him, gesturing to the noises – they’ve been dancing around it the entire conversation, ever since Alyse-that-was-no-longer-Alyse, but there are names for things like this. “Clint, _zombies_. I’m just trying to—”

“If you even _think_ the words ‘bigger picture,’ I will punch you in the throat—”

The Hulk roars in anger from the shoreline, a second front of battle now, and the sound knocks the air from Tony’s chest and the ground from beneath his feet; Clint reaches out to steady him with a hand at his elbow. In the blink of time it takes Tony to regain his footing, his sense comes with it – this is neither the time nor the place for their arguments. It’s a realization Clint must second, because no sooner has Tony found his balance than Clint is shoving him off it, towards the sounds from the ridge. “If I can’t see you,” he repeats, “I get inside.”

“That’s the plan,” Tony agrees, and he brings up the blue glow again. The second effort screams along his nerves and he puts aside the pressure and the pain, mentally locks it away with the many other things he just does not have the time or strength to deal with right now – he tucks it somewhere behind Pepper and Stane and _they ripped out your heart, Tony_ , in the dark corners of his mind. Then he orients himself toward the road above, and leaves the safety of numbers and the firelight to plunge into the darkness.

The soft blue glow that emits from his skin casts eerie shadows around it – the sort that scream _danger!_ with every flicker at the corner of his gaze – but it also provides just enough light to see by; it’s a blessing how quickly he makes it to the hills, and then it isn’t. The distant growls from the top of the road grow increasingly less so as the light begins to draw attention. “Shit,” he curses, because he’d known already there was something left out of his hasty calculations. “Shit, shit, _shit!_ ” and then he’s running, not bothering with silence or stealth anymore because there’s no way to hide the lyrium-blue radiance in the otherwise darkness.

And then there are hands grabbing at his robes, deathly white hands that turn bright blue when they’re close enough to touch, cold hands with thin, bony arms and sharp edges and high shrieks. He acts on instinct, obeying the loud thrumming in his bones as he spins inside the reach of the closest corpse and grabs it by the jaw, teeth clacking shut against exposed bone, and there’s a flash and an inhuman howl and the creature drops to the scent of burnt ozone. Scratching at his back and another hand tangles in his clothing; he doesn’t even look this time, just throws an arm back and feels the lightning arc from his palm, and then there’s nothing holding onto him and he keeps running, up the hill to where the sounds of fighting back hold strong.

He crests the rise and another hand grabs him, large and warm this time, and pulls him none too gently behind a rough wall of crates to meet the blank glare of the Captain. “ _Junior_ ,” he growls, “what are you—”

“Hold that thought, Cap!” Tony snakes up for a brief glance over the barrier – Natasha is nowhere to be seen, but that’s almost to be expected of her, and Thor is bashing away at two of the creatures with an ill-placed look of delight. Of the five initial villagers he sees only two left, crouching against the side of the mill behind a similar set of wooden crates. They look terrified. “Tash?” he calls, and doesn’t hear a reply so much as see a noticeable shift in the shadows immediately past Thor; all clear then. Bringing up his mental map of what he’d set out earlier, he thrusts both hands over the box – one straight ahead, toward the road, and the other angled toward the village proper. “Down!” That’s all the warning he gives before releasing the build-up of energy that guided his way here.

The first of the barrels, filled to the brim with a mixture of lantern oil and saltpeter, goes off like a bomb; there’s a shout of surprise from the villagers, echoed by a chorus of pained shrieks from the gathered creatures as those closest are incinerated in the blast. Those farther back are splattered with the flaming mixture – it is thick and cloying, igniting skin and scraps of clothing where it lands, and they turn on each other in their frenzy. The few not anywhere near the destruction recoil in terror, shrieks turned to low whimpers, and Tony manages a thoughtful hum. “Photophobic. Huh. I guess that explains why they only attack at night.”

The second barrel, with only lantern oil within, catches the wooden stakes and turns them in to a flaming barrier; the resulting pyre illuminates the small landing like daylight. The creatures scream in pain and fear and, in an unforeseen side effect, rush away from the light – directly toward the crates where they have taken cover. In a matter of heartbeats the Captain has dropped into a low crouch, the shield shooting over his head to catch a panicked creature in the chest shoving it backwards into the three running behind. They snap at each other in confusion. Tony glances to the right to see Natasha similarly covering the remaining villagers as Thor leaps out to meet the charge head on; the one that does not meet his hammer drops with feathers sprouting from its eye, and Tony grins at the Captain.

“Eagle Eye down there said it was too dark to get a shot off,” he explains, winded and happy, almost delirious from adrenaline and the magic that sings against his skin. The Captain looks grudgingly impressed as a second, and then third, corpse is felled by arrows hitting directly into their most vulnerable spots.

Natasha materializes from the shadows at his elbow. “Hawk.” She snaps her wrist and a glinting blade spins from it, cutting into a creature’s neck. “Not eagle,” but she smiles at him, a fraction of a moment of softness before her face schools back into neutrality (“Okay,” he’d said, dropping into the too-small space between them by the fire, “Natasha I get.” The only response was a delicate raise of her eyebrow and a quiet snort into his tea. “But I’m finding it hard to believe that the Dalish name their children ‘Clint.’” The elf in question grinned wide and full, tan face nearly beaming. “And here I thought you were just a pretty face. It’s an alias. Easier for most Shems to manage than _Andru’inan_ ” and Tony had nodded toward the quiver on his back and the tattoos across his cheeks. “That makes so much more sense now.”) as she hauls him to his feet. “You alright?”

“I’m great,” he smirks, and he’s not lying this time – he’s in his element here, magic and puzzles and split-second decisions, running the variables in the blink of an eye, problems and answers and the rush of adrenaline. He’s had his heart ripped out and it’s the end of the world, but Tony feels more alive than he has in years. “You guys have this,” and Thor is smashing away, his booming voice carrying over the wails and the sickening crunch of bones, as wave of monsters thinning to a steady trickle draws the two villagers out of hiding. “I need to get back to the plaza for part two of this plan.”

There’s a stifle of laughter behind him. “I’m shocked,” the Captain tells him, hurling the shield in a wide arc that takes out two of the creatures; one drops with a shattered spine, and the other loses a leg at the knee – it continues to crawl toward the doggedly, and Tony grimaces at the sight and the sound and the smell of it all before putting it out of its misery with another blast of energy.

“What, that I have a part two?”

“That you have a plan at all.”

He’s momentarily stunned, the words and their deadpan delivery refusing to connect in his head with the voice saying them, and then he smiles a bit. “I thought you were supposed to be a pillar of goodness.”

The smile that crosses the Captain’s – _Steve’s?_ – face is less wooden this time, bright and natural, and it’s so familiar that it’s impossible there isn’t at least a little bit of the other man in it; it’s startling so much so that he doesn’t even take the offered second to wonder the extent of it, where one ends and the other begins, how much is the Captain and how much is Steve himself and how much the other is conscious from the passenger seat of consciousness. “And I thought you were supposed to be a genius. _Down,_ Junior,” and he does, the shield returning with a practiced _swoosh_ to the Captain’s arm before he’s throwing it again, the disc sailing perfectly through the air in a way that he knows is only partly due to the spells worked into the metal.

The unexpected and out of place screech of a desert hawk pierces the nighttime, and if Tony hadn’t already guessed the source he would have by the way Natasha’s entire body stiffens, the blade hesitating before leaving her hand – she doesn’t falter, far too professional for that, but he tracks the movement of her hand without effort which, for her, is nearly the same. “Tony,” she says, and her voice betrays nothing; the familiarity of her address does. He’s _Stark_ when they’re alone and _Edwards_ when they’re not, occasionally a muttered curse in Elvhen or a roll of the eye, and it’s only when the ‘o’ of his name catches on her accent that he realizes he’s never heard it before.

“On the way,” he promises, and takes off running – down the hill, toward the plaza, away from the itchy, too-tight knowledge that Natasha, apparently, trusts him with her life; even more, with Clint’s. _Steve trusts you_ , she’d told him _, you’re his friend_ and he still hasn’t come to terms with that. Similar opinion from the seemingly cold assassin is too foreign to even consider, and yet—

He’s at the base of the hill when he’s grabbed around the waist, the Hulk’s large hand pulling him out of reach of the creatures he hadn’t even notices, and urges them back with a ferocious roar. He follows the action with another snarl, softer in volume but not in sentiment, directed at Tony. “Thanks, buddy,” he pats the heavy knuckles loose and sucks in a breath. “I was just coming to see you. I’ve got an idea...”

* * *

Tony reaches the Temple with little resistance aside from his own exhaustion, likely aided by an escort of the Hulk, whose color and call seems to attract the creatures like moths to a flame; the two villagers are dead, and Clint stands under the archway with his back to the heavy door, less than ten arrows remaining in his quiver. “Hi honey,” he greets the elf as he slides over the two arrows he’d pulled loose on his way down the hill. “You miss me?”

Clint doesn’t look up, busy lining up one two three shots, but accepts the arrows and sends them back out in the same motion. “You and blowing things up, I swear.”

“You knew what sort of man I was when you – _left_ ,” and the elf shifts on his feet, dropping one knee to bring his shoulder out of range of the blast of lightning that hits the walking corpse that had shambled around the side of the building. He fires another two arrows toward the wave heading from the shoreline, and tosses a small vial up for Tony to catch. “And it’s not even my birthday,” he drawls, uncorking the lyrium and choking it back with a grimace. The taste, as always, is disgusting, but he feels less tired after.

“That’s for last night,” he spares the second to wink, firing without looking and Tony almost doesn’t believe when the arrow hits its intended target (“Oh, now you’re just showing off,” he mutters under his breath, earning a short laugh. “I’d be more impressed if you had more than just another five shots,” and they both sober up at the thought.). “So, Edwards.” His voice is professional and distant again, the sudden turnabout a reminder that despite the sarcasm and the smiles Clint _is_ a Grey Warden, one that Fury personally sought out for his skills, so while Tony is still convinced they’re all going to die here, he thinks maybe they won’t go down easy. “This plan of yours have a part two?”

“Why does everyone keep asking it like that? Of course I have – _four_.” Clint pulls a face as he releases the arrow. “Of course I have a part two. Aim for the barrel in the center of the clearing, but hold fire.” There’s barely a passing noise of movement but suddenly Clint is beside him, bow drawn, and there’s not a single doubt in Tony’s mind that he hasn’t got the barrel in his sights.

There’s a second roar from the Hulk, growing louder as he thunders through the village toward them, with a squirming white gang of attackers following him like a shadow – their cries, louder than his by sheer number alone, are high-pitched and hair-raising. As they burst through the building line and into the dim torchlight of the plaza, the cries lessen slightly in confusion.

“He,” Clint eyes the Hulk’s continued charge toward them, gaining ground against his temporarily stunned pursuers as they mill about the edges of torchlight in indecision. “He’s going to stop right?”

Tony nods reassuringly. “Not really.” When the Hulk is only a few lengths from them he pulls to a sharp stop, slamming his fists into the dirt to slow his momentum; the shockwaves rattle the stones of the Temple and have Clint and Tony fighting to keep their footing, but the point of the arrow does not waver from its fixed position as the elf squirms to compensate the motion. “Now!”

Three things happen near simultaneously. The first is the Hulk reaching for the pile of stones next to the Temple arch; he twists his body as they fling over his head, sailing through the air as they open and it’s not a pile of stones but a weighted net – it settles over the milling crowd of creatures, whose cries renew their volume and desperation, sharp and reedy. The second is Clint’s arm relaxing as the arrow releases, humming as it whips through the air right under the Hulk’s arm, and connects with the barrel in a rather destructive sounding _twack_ – the barrel does not tip over, but is spun backwards a few steps from the force before settling, the arrow still vibrating in the wood. The final is Tony grabbing Clint by the arm only a blink after he’s released the string and pulling him to the ground, shouting a word under his breath, and then there’s a flash of light and smoke and a horrendous popping sound and the ground beneath them shakes with the power of the explosion.

Green.

All he can see is green.

His ears are ringing and his lungs are hacking up the thick smoke that clogs the air, and he feels as though he’s submerged underwater again – everything is distant and muffled, movement and sound obscured by the hollow alarm sounding from his skull and _green_ , everything is green—

“Thanks, buddy,” Tony manages to croak, voice sounding rough and so far away, even to him, as he pats the Hulk’s shoulder fondly; he and Clint are pressed between the Temple wall and the impressive wall of the Hulk curled delicately around them with his back to the explosion, his arms covering their heads. It’s possibly a smile, the way he bares his teeth in response, but Tony worries is pain. “You okay?” He nods his head, but apparently Tony’s not the only one feeling the explosion’s effects because he paws at his ears before doing so.

“What the fuck was that?” Clint asks, and Tony thinks that he might be yelling it – he thinks maybe they might all be yelling, really, but it sounds so small and soft and lost. As the smoke begins to thin out and his vision readjusts to the dark, finding focused shapes behind the bright flares of startled pupils, he’s pleased to note that the creatures are all dead, for good this time, although the plaza is blackened and cracked and cratered toward the center.

“I _may_ have underestimated the magical conductivity of the saltpeter,” he admits.

Clint turns on him, wide-eyed and incredulous. “ _You think?!?_ ”

They’re both dazed, sitting barely propped up against the wall of the Temple, ears ringing and covered in a scratchy mixture of soot and debris when the others finally get to them, coughing and shielding their eyes from the haze. There’s a cut over Thor’s brow that bleeds profusely, three or four on his arms that seemed to have already stopped, and a bruise forming down the side of Steve’s face – Natasha’s black leathers are glistening with _something_ , but if it is blood Tony is willing to bet on it not being hers (It is, he finds out later, both blood and not her own. “They were already dead,” she wrinkles her nose, scrubbing at the smears across her armor. “Their hearts had stopped. How were they still bleeding?” Clint rests wearily against a felled tree, his eyes closed. “ _Halam_ , Nat. We just survived a horde of magical zombies, and you’re worried about the science behind it? If you want to talk that shit, go bother Tony or Bruce,” but his legs are propped across her lap and he returns her glare with an expression of so much softness it’s easy to forget how lethal he was less than an hour before.). Five of the remaining thirty-four villagers have been killed in the attack and they’ve managed to blow a sizable hole in the gathering square at the Temple steps, but the sun is peeking out over the horizon to ignite the lake with a sunburst of pink and orange and, once again, they have survived.

“That was awful,” Tony croaks, voice still hoarse from the aftermath of the explosion; he accepts the hand Steve offers and the help pulling his body to standing, back never leaving the stones he has to lean against. “Let’s never do that again.”

Steve prods at the bruise on his face, baring his teeth when he finds a particularly tender spot near his temple, and hums his quiet disagreement. “We have to find out what happened at the castle,” he reminds him in a voice as tired as Tony feels. “We basically _have_ to do that again.”

“I hate our lives,” he mutters as they begin their slow, tired trek up the hill. Dummy, reluctant to leave the Temple and its children all too eager with their dinner scraps, frolics between and around them with happy barks; halfway up the hill, he presses his shoulder against Tony’s hip and slides the leather of his harness under his hand and leans forward into the weight, helping him over the ridge. They allow themselves one final moment of exhaustion at the bridge of the moat, summoning whatever hidden remains of strength they might carry between them, which isn’t many, and Tony mutters again. “I really hate our lives.”

Clint nudges a gentle elbow into Tony’s ribs. “Look on the bright side,” he swipes a finger through the black ash that cakes to the sweat of Tony’s forehead. “We’re probably going to die soon.” Despite everything, Tony laughs.

“Great pep talk, Barton. You’re a good friend.”

IV.

The gates to the castle are barred from the inside, completely impregnable, and Steve taps against them thoughtfully before eyeing the Hulk. “Do you think you could – forget it, stupid question,” he backs away from the glare fixed on him, from the large green knuckles that crack at the suggestion, from the hands as broad as his torso that twitch in motion as though ripping. “Do you think we should—”

“Or, if I might suggest an alternative?” Tony’s voice still sounds off to his hearing – or maybe it’s just his hearing that’s still off, he can’t be sure, but at least he’s stopped yelling every word he attempts. Clint has too, but he’s also stopped reacting to noise as quickly as he used to and Tony isn’t sure what that could mean or how he could fix it. “We tear down that door, then anything and everything in there knows we’re here and comes at us. Also, assuming we take the castle back – we will, I mean. Probably. – we’re only leaving it open for another attack as soon as we leave.”

Steve fixes him with a raised eyebrow. “So? Do you have a better idea to get us inside?”

Tony almost laughs. “Of course I do – I was sneaking in and out of this place as soon as I learned to walk.” There’s a moment of pause where he thinks he might feel surprised that he’s volunteered so much in the way of personal fact, and Natasha meets his gaze with a raised eyebrow that says she _definitely_ does, but it vanishes quickly beneath the familiar numbers of their counted path. He places his left hand against the stones of the wall and moves in even, measured steps – eighty-three steps from the edge of the gate he crouches down to tap the bricks with his knuckles, and glances up to see the others have followed at a short distance.

“What are you—” A man-sized section of wall swings inward at Tony’s touch with a groan of disuse, revealing a small passage through to the garden beyond. Clint’s teeth click against each other at the speed with which he closes his mouth. “Alright then.”

Tony grins softly, brushing a hand against the grass and later his knee as he stands. “We built this when we were kids. The garden has an entrance to the wine cellar, which has an entrance to the storage rooms, which have stairs up into the main halls of the castle. It’s roundabout, but it should get us inside relatively unnoticed.” The _should_ echoes in the stillness of the air, and they slip through the doorway with hands at their weapons; the Captain takes point with Dummy pressed firmly against his side. Natasha and Thor follow, but Tony stops the Hulk with a hand at his elbow. “Listen, Big Guy... you’re not going to fit through that door.” The Hulk grunts in response, shoving his fist against Tony’s shoulder, but nods his head in understanding. “Go around the front, wait at the gate. We’ll let you in as soon as we can.”

“Be safe,” he growls, and lopes back to the main entrance.

The ground shakes with his retreat, and leaves only one of them left. “Clint,” Tony turns to look for the elf, finding him already slinging his bow tight across his chest and pulling thin gloves over his knuckles; the palms and fingers are reinforced with a thick, scaled pattern of ridges.

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters around a few stretches of his arms and shoulders. “Close quarters, I got it.”

All he can do is shrug helplessly. “Get on the wall, take out anything on the grounds. If you can, open the gate and let Hulk in. Otherwise,” the shrug is repeated. “We’ll see you when we see you.”

Clint is already halfway up the wall, gloves gripping the unfinished edges of the stonework and feet finding nearly invisible cracks to propel him upward, but he spares a moment to throw a rude gesture back down. “I _know_ you did not just say goodbye to me, Edwards.” He sounds confident, indignant even, and it goes a long way toward rubbing off on Tony’s mood. “Go inside and do your part, damn it. I’m tired of pulling all the weight around here.” Tony’s smiling as he slips through the doorway, pushing the stones back into place behind him.

* * *

The interior wall of the castle is as bleak and silent as the exterior – there’s no sounds of life in the garden save their group, although Dummy still stands with his ears pinned and his hackles raised; Tony is torn between trepidation and relief. He’d half expected to enter a mass grave, half hoped that the walls had held and life within remained unchanged, but instead it seems largely abandoned. The garden they’ve entered is small, maybe only enough space for their group and one or two more to stand, with nothing but a carpet of thick grass at their feet to even qualify it as such. On the far wall from them, set into the ground, are the heavy oak and iron doors to the wine cellar – they are closed tightly with a thick chain and two padlocks to keep them that way, which the Captain stares at, calculating.

“Ah,” Tony glares when he sees the obstacle. “So he finally caught on.”

“Who?” Thor asks, overlapping Natasha’s “to what?”

It’s a tightrope walk of an explanation, just enough to get to an answer without giving too much away; he’s survived by keeping his past locked up tight, and the slow trickle of release since he’s come back here... he doesn’t quite know how to let it go. “This garden wasn’t always here. There was some weather damage to the southern wall about fifteen years ago, and during the repairs a few disreputable sorts took it upon themselves to... short change the corner here and create a small passage.”

“Were _you_ one of those disreputable sorts?” the Captain asks wryly.

It’s the same dryness he’s always had, but there’s fondness now where there used to be only scorn; Tony won’t pretend it has anything to do with any part of him but his name, but he returns the hint of a smile with one of his own. “I’m insulted that you even need to ask. So we shorted the corner to make this passage and the gate in and out, and the kitchen staff found out about it, and well... it’s right off the wine cellar. Draw your own conclusions.” He mimes bringing a bottle to his lips but the majority of his audience – the Captain, Natasha – have moved on to the chains. The Captain runs a mailed hand along the links with a grimace; they’re nearly as thick as his wrist, as is the face of the lock, and wrapped too tightly around the handles of the doors to fit any weapon of any weight between. He glances back at Tony, a question forming, and he shakes his head in answer. “I can break those, but it would make too much noise.”

Natasha shoulders past him with a soft smile, kneeling beside the Captain in the grass. “And this,” she reaches one hand up to the coil of hair braided against her skull and slips delicate fingers in, emerging with a needle-sharp blade only as long as her finger and a blunted tool with a hooked end only slightly larger. “Is where I make myself useful.” She inserts the blunted tool in first, hook side up, and slides the blade beneath it.

“You keep lock picks as hair pins,” Tony whispers – it’s an observation rather than anything else. She nods her agreement as the first of the two locks falls open with a wrenching groan, quickly moving to the second. “You’re terrifying.” The final lock releases as she preens a bit from the praise, securing the braid back against her scalp as the lock picking tools disappear. Moving past her, Thor and the Captain each take a handle and begin to ease the doors open; they groan against their hinges, offering a fight more than mere resistance, but inch by inch the opening reveals itself. As it does, the mockery of a growl that had been a constant hum of noise from Dummy intensifies, sharp and dangerous. He squares his body into the few inches of open air that’s been revealed, ears flat and lips drawn, and snarls into the darkness.

The darkness snarls back.

Natasha steps up and back, towing Tony along with her, to give the Captain space to slide in beside Dummy; the entire thing takes the blink of a second, leaving both of them a yard or so behind the wall of Dummy’s size and the Captain’s shield. To their left, Thor takes one handle of the doors in both hands and wrenches the wood off its hinges, twisting it against the opening and shoving it forward into the three creatures at the top of the steps – they tumble back into the cellar with a confused whine, clawing at their own skulls and screeching at the sudden intrusion of light. In the lull Thor builds them with his first attack the Captain pulls the other door open and Dummy charges into the cellar, heedless of the danger or Tony’s shout to heel.

“Light!” the Captain snaps and Tony seeks out that skitter of magic, chases it to the barrier of his skin and holds it there, tight and coiled, and the soft blue light is back; it crackles in the air like electricity, the blades of grass standing upright toward him with the static.

He takes one, two steps closer and the edges of light brush the top step of the cellar, and then the Captain is leaping down them with shield at the ready, following the animalistic snarls from within. Thor follows on his heels, and Tony moves to hurry after with a muttered ‘Damn it’ before Natasha’s hand at his sleeve catches him with a single moment of resistance. She meets his gaze, nodding once before she’s gone, the flash of her blades catching in the dim light the only sign of her as she vanishes into the dark of the cellar.

The racks of barrels cast eerie patches of shadow that could house any manner of creature; Tony follows the glints of the Captain’s shield and Natasha’s knives through a circuitous route that uncovers every hidden corner. In the darkness ahead of them, the snarl of a creature chokes off with the wet sound of a hammer hitting flesh. Further beyond, Dummy’s growls echo in the small space. For all that Tony doesn’t encounter a single thing, living or otherwise, that he wouldn’t consider a friend, the entire area is deeply unsettling.

Finally, there is silence.

The group rejoins at the door to the storerooms, shadows in the dark coalescing into panting forms as Tony brings the aqua glow of light closer – there are only three creatures on the floor, one felled by Thor’s hammer and the others in tattered pieces, rent apart entirely. Dummy stands beside them, wagging his tail proudly. “Good boy,” Tony murmurs, ignoring the much that soaks the dog’s front half to tousle his ears in reward.

“I thought he wasn’t a fighter,” the Captain eyes both the hound and the remains with newfound respect.

Tony shrugs. “Old dog, new tricks. Dummy’s adaptable.” The old dog in question wiggles at the sound of the Captain’s voice, pressing up against his leg with a dopey grin and looking every bit as harmless as he normally does. “Are they all that was down here?” He directs the question to Natasha, who had broken off to the opposite end of the cellar as soon as they had paused to collect themselves. Even in the near blackness, Tony trusts her instincts and her eyesight.

“Just these three,” she gestures, but her gaze flicks to the door only feet from them. “In here, at least.”

Thor eyes the door warily. “The mabari is not on alert. What is our plan?”

It takes a few moments of them – all of them, even the Captain – staring impassively before Tony realizes there’s a question hovering in the air, one he can’t quite understand. He may be a Warden and sort of their friend, but he doesn’t yet speak the language they share with only a few looks. “What?”

“The plan,” the Captain begins slowly, as though it should be obvious by now. “What is it?”

Oh.

Tony swallows down the panic that surges in his throat at the thought of responsibility, _real_ responsibility, over people and their lives and he _can’t_ , not after last time (and the time before that and the time before that and—) “ _Just get us to the courtyard_ ,” Natasha murmurs to him in Elvhen. He speaks the language, in theory, but mostly from texts and the unfamiliar cadence of vowels leaves his brain chasing meaning from old memories – the sudden object of focus brings clarity and with it, even breathing. He reaches a hand out and latches his fingers through the leather strap at her wrist, heedless of the hidden weapons and poisoned blades. She doesn’t react, which he thinks might be as close to a gesture of her own as she can manage.

The courtyard. He can manage that. He knows this castle like the back of his hand, knows it inside and outside and in the dark, knows it even filled with creatures and how best to avoid them.

“Through this door,” his voice is hoarse, and then it isn’t. “There are three storerooms. The one nearest us has a staircase leading up to the kitchen, but we don’t want to go that way. The stairs are narrow, only room for one at a time, and the kitchens open to the dining hall, which opens to the great hall. That’s where we want to go, but—” He swallows, words thick in his throat again. “If things are bad inside, if the castle has already fallen, we’ll be outnumbered and trapped before we make it past the ovens. We want the third room, the small one at the back. It’s mostly for the equipment for fieldwork, but there’s an access to the main gardens. If we can get through on that side we can get to the courtyard and let the Big Guy in.”

“And then to the great hall?” the Captain asks.

Tony shrugs. There’s really no other option available to them at this point, not with so few of them against such an unknown. “Through the front door. If the gates hold, we can sacrifice the door. We’ll figure it out later. Once we’re through the door there’s a hallway – we go right, turn the corner, and find the arl.” _Hopefully_ , he doesn’t say, but the word prowls unspoken at the edges. _Hopefully_ they find the arl, _hopefully_ he’s still alive, _hopefully_ any of them even make it that far.

Thor’s face sets into grim determination as he nods once, assuredly, and then sets his shoulder against the door. “Are we prepared?”

The Captain sets his shield against his leg, braced for the defensive, and Natasha reaches across her shoulder for a pair of sais; Tony shivers at the crawl of blood magic that the blades absolutely reek of, but tucks himself beside her elbow. “As we’ll ever be,” and Thor sets his shoulder more firmly against the wood before shoving with his whole body, levering against the oaken planks and the door gives immediately, swinging open without the resistance of any lock, not even barred—

Bodies.

The storeroom beyond is littered with bodies.

Not the sickly white bone of the creatures they’ve fought but pink and red and soft, women and children and men slick with blood, eyes wide and mouths open in silent terror, hands clasped and a few of them are reaching, arms outstretched and so, _so_ close to the door, like they’d tried to escape and made it _so close_ – the Captain lets out a noise, something small and wounded, and a sound of anguish wrenches from Thor’s throat seemingly unbidden. Natasha grabs for Tony’s arm with a string of Elvhen he can’t understand, and it’s not until he feels her nails biting the curve of his elbow that he realizes his legs are given out beneath him. His eyes flick from one to another to another, five ten thirty-four in total, and when his gaze catches on a child no older than Fergus he thinks it might finally do him in.

“They were unarmed,” Natasha tells him again, this time in Common. “Tony—”

“I know.” His throat feels raw.

“ _No_ , Tony.” Nails bite again at the soft skin of his arm. “They were unarmed. These are servants or villagers, not the arl’s men.”

“That doesn’t make it okay!” He hates the anger in his yell, the one that sounds too much like his father, too loud and too hateful and more than these poor people deserve, but they are people – _were_ people, were families and friends and they don’t deserve to be treated as smaller threads in a more important tapestry. _Bigger picture_ , Natasha tells him time and again.

Her answer is soft, too soft for the others to hear, and she sounds unbearably, impossibly _young_. He’d just assumed, since she was an elf, that she— “It means we can’t give up,” she releases her vise like grip of his arm and runs her fingers lightly down his wrist in apology. “It means we have to move forward.”

She makes it sound so easy, when he knows it’s anything but. “I’m good at giving up,” he tells her with an empty smile, a parrot of an expression that he just can’t find down here in the dark, and he wonders where he’d be able to find any part of himself in this new world of theirs.

“I don’t think you know _how_ to give up,” she promises him, voice distant and strong again. “Now move forward.”

He does.

V.

They make it to the main gardens without a sign of anyone else, living or dead, and emerge to midday sunlight and the unmistakable roar of the Hulk coming from somewhere too close to be beyond the walls. The courtyard is around a corner, a short hedge blocking the shortest path between them and it, but it explodes into leaves and anger as the Hulk thunders through it, two creatures attached to his arm – one is gripped tightly in his fist, and he uses it to pummel the other hanging at his elbow. These creatures, unlike the shambling corpses from the village, are entirely skeletal.

“I thought they were sensitive to light!” the Captain calls accusingly, throwing his shield low at a skeleton that is attempting to clamor through the wreck of the hedge toward them; it shatters the bones easily and the creature drops without a fight. Thor grins at the sight and vaults the remaining section of hedging, swinging his hammer with vengeful purpose as he disappears around into the main courtyard. Following the sound of his battle laugh, the Hulk drops what remains of his passengers and lopes after.

Tony shrugs, and glares, and banishes the energy that lit his skin to only his hands, lightning arcing at the closet creature – it shrieks as the bone blackens and crumbles. “They’re skeletons,” he kicks out at the charred legs to knock it to the ground in a pile. “They don’t have eyes.”

“How are they even—”

“I don’t _know_ , Cap!” he interrupts, ducking beneath the shield’s arc and through the gap in the hedge – the courtyard appears overrun, these skeletons more numerous than the corpses at the village, but they go down more easily at their attack. It almost makes the sheer amount more manageable. “Why don’t you ask one?” The Captain joins him with a brief, all too human smirk that drops when he sees the chaos that awaits them.

Thor and Hulk are the main action, swinging hammer and fists in a continuous cloud of noise and bone dust, but the skeletons count near to a hundred and only keep coming, three more for every one that is felled. Natasha is a shadow despite the bright daylight, here and gone again, but Tony can guess her general path when he spots Clint at the back wall. His bow is still slung across his chest to preserve any remaining arrows, but he swings what looks to be the handle of the gate mechanism in wide, destructive arcs as he clears a path to meet Natasha halfway. He offers a quick smile before turning to the advancing skeletons, fighting back to back with her as they attempt to lessen the number of enemies by the gate.  

The Captain follows Tony, covering his back and his blind spots, and they make slow work across the yard to the staircase to the main entrance. “There’s got to be an easier way!” Tony pants when they finally position themselves against the heavy door; now only surrounded on three sides, he slouches into a quick rest.

“You could always try for one of those explosions you’re so fond of,” the Captain offers, but his voice is distracted and humorless as he keeps his focus on the writhing mass of skeletons attempting to scramble up the staircase after them. A quick toss and the shield arcs low, bouncing off the top step and into the chests of the foremost three before ricocheting off the railing and back to his hand with careless ease. Tony burns to study it, study the spells forged into the metal and find out how much of this is magic and how much is merely mathematics, and how much of the Captain’s legacy of strength and bravery rests on his ability to calculate angles on the fly.

“I think I have a better idea,” he starts, pausing long enough to launch a glowing blue burst of energy cascading down the stairs. “And it probably doesn’t involve explosions.”

The Captain growls. “Do better than ‘probably.’”

“I really can’t.” The Captain mutters something beneath his breath that is possibly a refusal, but he inches closer in acceptance and freezes expectantly. “Just hold on tight. And aim,” Tony remembers to add as an afterthought.

“I already hate this plan,” the Captain replies in Steve’s voice, and Tony flashes a reassuring grin before summoning the energy once again, pooling it into his hands. When it threatens to overflow, to leak beyond his control, he centers the burst directly into the star at the heart of the shield.

To his credit, the Captain – Steve? The two blur in Tony’s head like they do in their own, sometimes one or the other but sometimes almost both, and at this point Tony thinks it’s almost easier to trust than both than bother with the headache of wondering which is which – doesn’t drop the shield, but he does let out a surprised yelp and swing the shield away, away from Tony and the castle wall, toward the stairs. The blue energy deflects off to cut a wide swatch through the approaching skeletons; they drop with anguished cries, the bones clattering harmlessly to the stone beneath them. From across the length of the courtyard, Thor whoops in victory.

“Sixteen degrees,” Tony offers conversationally, and the Captain immediately moves the shield with the adjustment. The two skeletons that had been approaching from the side are caught in the shins, tumbling back down the stairs where Dummy springs, worrying at the bones until they no longer fight back. Bracing the bottom edge of the shield against his thigh, the Captain reaches for his belt one-handed and tosses a vial for Tony to catch; either he’s more tired than he thought or he’s starting to hate the taste of lyrium less, because this one seems almost easy to swallow.

A lot of it seems almost easy after that.

Tony and the Captain burn another patch clear, allowing a path for Natasha and Clint to cross the courtyard and join them by the door; they dodge magic and skeletons with equal ease, nimbly finding their way through the fray. Thor and the Hulk turn the battle into a game between them, Thor knocking creatures backwards with his hammer into the waiting hands of the Hulk where they are gleefully smashed to the ground beneath him. The few who manage to approach from the opposite side are caught in a green fist and cheerfully tossed into the air for Thor, who all but turns them to dust with a mighty swing of his hammer. At one point Tony swears he hears the two calling scores between them, but when he glances over they are both stone-faced and silent (“I can’t help it,” Bruce tells him later, “The other guy’s pretty competitive about his smashing.” Tony laughs wearily and pats his shoulder, “And you do it so well, darling.”).

Finally they are alone, leaning heavily against the doors and each other, and coughing their lungs free of bone dust.

“I really,” Clint tousles his hair, grey and chalky, to release a new cloud of the fine powder into the air, and a bit smears into the soot that still smudges his forehead from the night before, “ _really_ hate our lives.”

Tony nods emphatically around a hacking cough. “What he said.” He leans to one side to knock at the Captain’s shield, resting on the stones between them, with his boot. “Five minute break?”

“No rest for the wicked, Junior.” The Captain shoves his boot away, struggling to his feet with a tired sigh, but he offers a mailed hand to help Tony stand; he accepts. “We have to retake the castle before nightfall, in case all of these come back... again.” The others grimace at the thought and pull themselves off the ground. Natasha gracefully unfolds to her feet with Clint only slightly behind, and Thor does the same with less ease or grace – he’d hyper-extended his shoulder sometime during the fight in the courtyard, unused as he was to human mortality (he’d said, and Tony hadn’t yet decided if he believed), but had waved off the offer of a healing spell and instead urged Tony to conserve lyrium for the later battle.

Seeing their movement the Hulk grumbles something sullen under his breath and reaches for the handle of the main door – it opens with a sharp tug, the door not barred with the usual length of timber and instead only a few spears. It’s not a good sign.

 _Please_ , Tony wills the words into being, praying to the Allfather he hasn’t believe in since he was a child, as he remembers the carnage in the cellars, **_please_** _be alive_. He tiptoes in through the open door with a silently cursing Captain right on his tail and reaching out to stop him. “ _Junior_ ,” he hisses, nothing more than an expulsion of breath, almost imperceptible in the silence, but it’s enough. The sound leaves his lips as less than a whisper, and suddenly there is snarling; it’s not from Dummy, who plants his body in the doorway with hackles raised.

“Incoming!” Tony yells back in warning to the others, still outside, and moves back to allow them more room to fill the hallway – to the left is a small room, mostly used for storage, and as he steps closer there’s a stench of blood through the half open door. The punch in the gut feeling returns, knocking air from his lungs and it’s suddenly too small and too close in here, the hall too narrow and the others too many, and it’s too late, _too late_ because a group of the creatures limp around the corner and—

The Hulk lets loose a deafening roar before ripping the door free of its hinges, holding it before him like the Captain’s shield as he sprints down the hallway. He doesn’t stop as he reaches the creatures, doesn’t stop as he makes contact – he runs full tilt until he crashes into the wall at the far end of the hallway, the wood slamming against stone like a battering ram and trapping the crush of living corpses between. There’s an unpleasant, wet sounding noise before the _thud_ of the door dropping from his hands, and he turns back with a stubborn set to his jaw. “Hulk tired of this,” he tells them solemnly, and no one can find the words to respond.

“That was,” the Captain – now Steve – searches for the right description. “That was—”

“Good plan, buddy,” Clint ventures finally, offering a single thumbs up in the direction of the carnage. “That was really good.”

The Hulk snorts, but accepts the praise and steps over the mess of broken bodies to round the corner. “Here now,” he calls back at them. “The big door.”

The door to the great hall is shut and barred, three dead knights slumped against the walls and twice as many felled creatures around them. Aside from the marks of battle that coat the entry there is an otherwise stillness, an unnatural silence that settles like a weight in their chests. Tony’s hands clench into fists, fingernails digging into his skin because they’ve made it this far, _please_. “Hulk,” his voice cracks, rusty and flat, “would you get the door?” The wood cracks around the edges and the stones shake in the arch as the Hulk’s fists collide, splintering on the first blow, and Tony has a second to worry that the whole building might come down on top of them before something _gives_ , the wood or the wall or both, and the door pulls open after a defeated sounding crunch. Please, Tony digs the words into the palms of his hands, _please_ be alive—

No sooner has the door been cleared than a row of blades replace it, armed knights with determined faces filling the gap between the archway and the great hall; both sides blink in confusion when the threat reveals itself as living and breathing, but neither relaxes. One man, the patch on his chest proclaiming him as the captain of the guard, steps forward out of line to stare them down with cool indifference. “State your allegiance.”

“Grey Wardens,” Steve responds in a calm voice, lowering his shield to the floor (“What are you _doing_?” Tony hisses, and gets only a glare in return. “They’re protecting the arl’s home and wearing the arl’s colors,” Steve hisses back, “I think it’s safe to assume that these are the arl’s men.”) and rising with his arms held loosely in front of him, hands in view. “We come with an urgent message for Arl Rhodes.”

The man pauses, and Tony can feel the weight of the gaze that appraises them – they’re a tired, dirty group at this point, hardly the heroes of legend, but they’ve managed their way through the castle and that’s surely got to count for something. It must, because the visor flips up to reveal a familiar face, and Rhodey cracks a tired smile. “Well, it’s about damn time.”

VI.

Tony pulls the hood of his robes up to shadow his face and steps behind Steve in the same motion; from his new point, closer to the corner, he has a better view of Rhodey’s face. It’s the same one of their childhood, same brow and same nose, but it’s lined and pinched as it never had been when they were younger. It might only have been ten years, but he looks to have aged at least twenty.

“Redcliffe owes you a debt, Wardens,” he greets them, and even his voice sounds older. Tired. He sounds as though he’s carried the years on a chain dragged behind him, slowing him down. “For your aid. You are welcome in my house if you need shelter or supplies, but I’m afraid that I cannot officially offer you my hospitality or my soldiers.” He sounds resigned, like a man who’s completely given up – guilt and anger wage against each other in the battleground of his throat, and Tony draws further away. “With tensions as high as they are after Ostagar, I can’t afford to be seen allying myself with you. I—

“This is bullshit,” Tony bites the words into this lip, voice a casualty of warring emotions. Clint elbows him in the ribs.

“—am sorry,” Rhodey finishes, expression flat.

Steve accepts graciously. “We understand the position you have been put in—”

“This is bullshit,” Tony elbows Clint in return, finding his voice along with his volume. Thor lays a warning hand on his arm.

“Anthony,” he whispers, alarmed, and Clint digs a sharp bone into the soft of his stomach while hissing “Edwards, _shut up_.”

Anger and indignation strip the age away from Rhodey’s being, and Tony finally recognizes his friend in the rigid posture and the steely voice. “Excuse you?” he leans forward to see which of the Wardens has spoken against him, squinting against the fabric and the facial hair that keeps Tony mostly obscured. The guards at his shoulders don’t ready for an attack, but their spines straighten like they might defend his honor anyway.

“That’s bullshit, Rhodey.” Tony shoulders past Steve, who makes an aborted motion to grab for his arm before shrugging in defeat and waving him on. “You _know_ we had nothing to do with what happened at Ostagar, and you’ve never given two shits what Stane thought about you. You sure picked a hell of a time to turn into a coward—”

The punch comes without warning, and everyone winces at the crack of Rhodey’s fist against Tony’s face. “You _son of a bitch_ ,” and despite the pain and the probably broken bone, Tony leans toward the familiarity. “You unbelievable bastard, I **_mourned_** you. I stood at your _grave—_ ”

Guilt wins. “Rhodey—”

“Don’t you start with me, Stark.” His hand flexes again like he’s preparing for another blow, but instead he throws his arm out in disgust; it does hit Tony again, perhaps unplanned. “Ten years. I spent _ten years_ missing my best friend, blaming myself for his death, not to mention—” He hits Tony a third time, hands at his shoulders to shove him back through the ruined door; Natasha steps to the side to avoid it, but makes no attempt to catch him before he hits the wall. “I killed the king. I’m a _pariah_ – if it hadn’t been for Pepper, I would have been **_executed_**. Do you even _know_ what I’ve been through, Tony?”

Apparently he doesn’t, because the words the words hurt far worse than any blow could. Guilt and shame claw their way up his throat to leave him breathless, feel raw and scraped out hollow, but Rhodey isn’t finished with him yet.

“And you come here like this, just waltz back from the dead in the middle of a fucking war, and accuse _me_ of being a coward? Thank the Allfather you’re alive because I’m going to kill you myself, you piece of—” The words are lost into hoarse, wet coughs and the bone-crushing hug he pulls Tony into, burying his face in Tony’s neck. He shrinks away from the touch at first before melting into it, wrapping his arm tight across Rhodey’s waist and moving the other to his face.

He prods at the injury to keep from crying. “I think you broke my nose.”

“I should break your neck,” comes the voice pressed against his shoulder, forgiveness buried beneath every furious word.

Clint disturbs the moment with a sharp, shocked noise as he gestures helplessly. “Stark? As in, the ruling family? As in Tony Stark, _the king_?”

Ex-king, he doesn’t say, like he’s put together what this means since Ostagar. Tony smiles wanly and waves with the hand not stemming the blood that still flows from his nose. “Yeah, as in.”

Whatever anger or resentment he might feel at the revelation, Clint turns it on Natasha – the glare that turns his eyes to flint is cut with betrayal and something deeper, sharper. “You knew.” Her gaze remains shuttered, revealing nothing, but between them it’s enough. “And you didn’t tell me.” He turns his back on her and loses his sharp edges when he faces the others. “Did everyone know?”

Thor shakes his head, equally speechless as he absorbs the information – that probably means less for him, or perhaps more, if he is who he claims to be – but Bruce nods (“I had my suspicions,” he tells Tony later, “Seriously. You’re _really_ bad at this. First, who else but Tony Stark knows even _half_ of what you do about science? Or magic? Or anything? Second, you talk about your past with Stane and with the queen like it’s something common with men your age who happen to be called Tony. Which, by the way, when we first met you almost used your real name when you introduced yourself to me. Honestly, just spectacularly bad at this.” But he says it all with a smile and with a friendly arm slung across Tony’s shoulders like he’s not mad, and Tony grins at him. “Shut up.”). Steve only rubs at the back of his neck, sheepish, and refuses to answer.

“I know that this must be a trying time for you,” he begins, losing momentum as both Rhodey and Tony snort in matched amusement; it causes a whimper of pain from Tony before he murmurs a brief healing spell to set the bone, and Steve ignores him. “But the question begs to be asked – where did this come from? Stane’s no mage—”

“He is.” Tony wipes the blood from his face with the sleeve of his robe, returning after Rhodey gestures to a spot he’d missed with a hand at his own face. “He taught me, when I was a kid. Not everything, of course, most of this is from books and whatever I could figure out – he’s got the control but not the ability, but I couldn’t go to the Circle and he was there—” It’s been a lifetime since he thought back to those first lessons, to the heavy books Stane would sneak back to the palace when his father was away, to the long night spent pouring through their pages and the universes they opened up to him. To the secret they shared between them, trusted between a young boy and the man who was more a father than his own, the man who’d abandoned him in battle, ordered his death without a second thought—

There’s a hand at his shoulder, but it isn’t Stane’s – too smooth and too small, too light with its grip – and Steve’s voice is soft, close, coaxing like Tony’s a wounded animal. He might be. “Could he manage something like this?”

He shakes his head. “Not by himself. He’s not strong enough for something of this magnitude at this range, not unless – if he had a focus, and maybe—” He can’t concentrate. His head is full of Rhodey and Stark and Stane and the past and the present and he’s _tired_ , physically this time, with two days of hard travel and fighting monsters. He can’t concentrate on anything beyond the way he’s surrounded by death and the world is ending. “Bruce?”

Bruce removes his glasses, rubbing his eyes with similar weariness. “A bastardized spell net maybe? It only worked at night, and only in this valley. I’m sure with a focus and a good amount of lyrium, then maybe—”

“He would need another person, someone here, to stabilize the other end—”

Rhodey, seemingly unbothered by the way they speak over and around each other like it’s their own language (and ten years changes a lot, but it doesn’t change this – Tony is still Tony, and Rhodey is still used to him), cuts them off with a deadly expression. “So you’re saying that someone here, one of my men, is Stane’s spellcaster.” It doesn’t read as an accusation. If anything, by the way the guards murmur amongst themselves before falling into position behind their arl, it’s more that they believe the suggestion entirely. These men might not have been around ten years before to remember Tony, but it’s obvious they trust in Rhodey, and trust in his trust of them.

“Actually,” Bruce considers, “if I had to guess I would say it was someone from the village. The attacks began there, correct?”

Rhodey nods. “We didn’t learn of the attack until the next morning. A group of survivors sought shelter here, brought word of the monsters, and that night they came for us as well.” He gestures quietly to the group of civilians huddled against the very back corner, the ones Tony had assumed were the castle staff – some indeterminate number of them were the missing search party who had become trapped within, unable to return to the village.

“I would bet money,” Bruce says the words around an easy smile, calm and conversational, that doesn’t fit the importance of what he says. “On Stane’s sorcerer being among the villagers who arrived after that first attack.” Rhodey smiles the same way, bland and unbothered, and nods to show he understands.

Tony doesn’t.

“That was two days ago,” he glances between Rhodey, thankfully unharmed, and the large amount of his guards who remain equally so. “Why didn’t you send anyone to help them?”

“My men were needed in the castle.”

Ten years doesn’t change anything, but it changes this – Rhodey’s voice is hard and unfriendly, razor sharp like Tony’s never heard it before, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about the castle and their orders because this is _two hundred people_ they’re talking about, two hundred gone in only two nights, completely alone with an army just up the hill doing nothing to stop it. Ten years changes a lot. The James Rhodes he remembers would have taken a sword for a stranger, not sat back and ignored two hundred of his own people being slaughtered in the dark. “Your men were _needed_ in the village—”

“Do you think I don’t know that?” Rhodey’s arms shake with the strain of not hitting him again, but Tony almost wishes he would – at least then he would show he hadn’t given up on fighting altogether. “Do you genuinely think I don’t know that I could have stopped this? Could have saved them? Don’t you _dare_ lecture me about responsibility, Stark. It’s been ten years since you cut and run because things got hard, and I’ll be damned if I stand by and let you accuse me of not doing enough for my people—”

The moment is broken as Steve reaches an arm out to drag them apart, hand tangled in the back of Tony’s robes.

“Forgive me,” Rhodey takes a moment to glare at Tony’s retreat, but he shrugs back on the mantle of host with a flustered sort of practice he wouldn’t have had ten years before. “You must be exhausted. Please, rest the night. My men will find the sorcerer, the least I can do is offer you some comfortable beds.”

Only Natasha doesn’t seem excited at the promise of real beds, sparing a soft touch to Clint and then Tony’s arms, a whisper of acknowledgement that she cares before retreating to the back of the group, silent and sullen.

“Sorry in advance,” Rhodey say cryptically, but it doesn’t seem like a trap. Tony would guess it referred to the quality of the space available for them, until he leads them upstairs to the quarters reserved for visiting family, just down the hallway from his own rooms, and waves them off to choose their own. Thor looks appropriately honored, filling the space with his booming voice expressing gratitude from their group as a whole, while Bruce looks uncomfortable at the opulence and the tight quarters. Tony is just far enough past exhaustion that his curiosity suffers, ready to head for the nearest room and drop into bed, when a door opening at the very end of the hall has all of their attentions drawn taut.

Tony whirls on Natasha, already dizzy from it and the movement makes him want to vomit whatever he hasn’t eaten that day. “You... This is why you weren’t at Ostagar!” Rhodey is next, though he at least has the decency to look ashamed – for all that Tony deserves his ire, he doesn’t deserve _this_. “This is why _you_ weren’t at Ostagar!” The hallway is spinning, his head is spinning, it’s too light and too dark and his skin is too small and he wants to run away, wants to pick a fight, wants to do anything except what he does, sink to the floor because his legs aren’t working like his eyes aren’t working, because it can’t be—

“Tony,” Natasha starts soothingly, but he doesn’t need pity and he doesn’t want hers.

“Shut up. Just _shut up_ , Natasha. I don’t want to hear anything that you have to say to me ever again.” For all that he’s running on magic and miracles, he feels the heart he no longer has stutter to a painful stop and feels his lungs scream in agony because he can’t breathe, he can’t _breathe_ he can’t—

She lays a gentle hand on his arm and he doesn’t shake it off.

“It can’t,” he whispers, hating the way his voice sounds as broken as he feels. Footsteps retreat as the others make their exits to respective rooms, leaving them in the relative privacy of the now empty corridor. When the squeezing in his chest threatens to cut him in half and he doesn’t think he can take any more, he chances a second look at her. With her big eyes and bare feet, she looks all of the scabby-kneed seven-year-old he remembers. “I watched you die.”

“So did Stane,” she reminds him, and drops to the carpets beside him. “I am sorry, though.”

He cuts her off by collapsing boneless against her, resting his weight against her side and his head against her shoulder – when they were children, raised in the position and privilege of the court, there was always a casualness of touch between them. Given their station, there were very few others who would, or could, touch them. This is something more though. This is reassurance, feeling her solid frame and her warm skin and the beat of her heart, checking again and again because he has all the facts now to an answer that doesn’t add up, using his senses because logic is telling him no, it can’t be, it isn’t. “We are so not having this conversation right now,” he breathes out, shakily. “Right now I’m going to try and remember how to breathe, and then we’re not going to have this conversation ever because I don’t think I can. Damn it Pep, you’re the only family I have. No dying.”

“No dying,” she agrees, and sets her chin on the top of his head. “It would never even occur to me to do anything as stupid as dying before you. That would leave you with the throne and really, the people don’t deserve that.”

“You’re the worst person I know,” he mutters into her collarbone.

“I love you too, Tony.”

“Pepper,” he says. Pepper is _alive_. She’s alive and he might be angry with her forever, staging her own death like that – but then again he probably won’t, she learned from the best after all – but what matters is that it’s Pepper. She’s alive and she’s here, the only thing he can count on in this unbelievable nightmare shit-storm that is the world now, and she’s brilliant. He’s not a king or a leader, not like she is – never like she is and _give it up, kid, you know you can’t do this_ , he hears in Stane’s voice, _this country’s better off with you dead than on the throne_ , but for the first time he doesn’t care, for the first time since Ostagar Stane is not a bitter weight in his chest and the acrid aftertaste of betrayal, because everything is fine. Everything is fine, is going to be fine, because Pepper is—

Pepper is—

This time, as he buries his face in her shoulder and cries, it feels almost like laughter.


	2. Honor

**Part Three**

I.

The following day finds the castle buried in an uncomfortable quiet. Bruce, claiming discomfort at being indoors, had spent the majority of the night roaming the grounds. Thor, though gracious and kind when they saw him at mealtime, remained in his room with the door barred. Clint and Natasha had vanished to destination unknown before appearing just as silently for breakfast the morning after with Clint’s hand wrapped from an injury he somehow gained _after_ the retaking of the castle; when asked, he offered no explanation. The arl – Rhodey, as he refused to respond to anything but – seemed to house them no ill will despite the previous afternoon’s confrontation with one of their own, passing the morning meal laughing and joking with Thor (as the other were decidedly too downcast to engage, though Bruce did smile at Steve when he finally joined them). “Are you alright?” he asks the Wardens, sliding to the bench beside Bruce.

“Aside from the overarching terror of impending doom? No complaints.” Bruce may or may not be joking, but Thor is quick to agree – the pain in his shoulder had been easily treated by one of Redcliffe’s healers the night before. Natasha doesn’t look up from the bowl of fruit she isn’t eating so much as moving around with a fork, and Steve doesn’t want to ask why Clint is seated at the opposite end of the table from her.

Clint, however, shrugs around the injured hand laying cradled in his lap. “Any...” his voice lowers to a whisper as he leans into Steve, “Any word from Tony?” Natasha’s fork stills as she waits for an answer, but Steve shakes his head with none to give. Tony had disappeared into his room the night before, door locked and bolted, and refused to speak to anyone through the heavy oaken planks. ‘Sulking,’ Rhodey informed them with a forced smile, and didn’t sound any more convinced by it than they had been.

Somehow, if the expectant looks are anything to go by, Tony has become entirely Steve’s job. “I’ll try again,” he promises, meaning later. The looks do not lessen, and he sighs his way up from the table and all the way back to the residences. “Tony?” He doubts that he’ll be having any luck as the silence beyond the door remains unbroken even at his knock, not even the rustle of movement when someone intends to pretend they are not inside, and he knocks again. “Are you even in there?”

“Oh,” comes the arl’s voice from too close at Steve’s shoulder, and when Steve’s startled response has him almost tripping in the aborted gesture halfway between a bow and an attack the smile erases years from his face. “He’s in there. Hopefully,” and here the voice raises, gone from conversational to close to shouting as he directs the words toward the wall ahead of them. “Dealing with the animal that died on his face. Ten years in the North and he’s fuzzier than a damned dwarf.”

“Fuck you, Rhodey!” comes Tony’s muffled voice, and it’s the first they’ve heard it since he retreated into his quarters and himself, since after the cellars and the confrontation in the hall and after Pepper and— His voice is low and harsh, but if anything the anger sounds like something closer to fondness. It’s a tone that Steve has come to recognize.

“Shave your face!” the arl yells in response, and the clatter of _something_ hurled against the wall from the other side nearly drowns it out. However, when Tony does emerge some forty minutes later his hair is cut shorter and the previous bush of a beard has been tamed into a careful goatee that makes him look younger, less wild. It makes him look like—

“You’re Tony Stark.” Steve can’t help staring. It’s one thing to be told, to know, that the man he’s travelled with for weeks now is the lost king – Steve trusts Tony, trusts him at his word and at his back, and he trusted the story as it came to him. But it’s one thing to know and another entirely to _see_ , and suddenly the man who is his friend is also the man who is the face on his coins.

He thinks that Tony gets it, from the way his lips twitch in a smile he refuses to give in to. “Pretty sure you knew that already.”

Steve allows a returned smile of his own, teeth white and cheeks pink. “Yeah, but before you were,” and he gestures vaguely at face height, “and now you’re... not.”

“That’s a nice way of saying you don’t look like a crazy bushman anymore,” Rhodey tells Tony fondly, reaching out to tousle the hair that had previously hung to his shoulders and is now only a few inches, the lack of weight causing it to fall in waves across his forehead. He snorts inelegantly when Tony swats the hand away, eyes pinched in annoyance, but his following smile speaks volumes. They’re still not forgiven, not really, not after yesterday or the ten years before that, but they’re here and the world is ending and it’s hardly a time for grudges.

“I was in _hiding_ ,” he repeats for perhaps the eighteenth time since they reached the throne room, since Rhodey had expressed his elation with increasingly vocal hatred of Tony’s overall appearance and Pepper had finally given in to the laugh that had been previously set aside for wartime duty. “I was _incognito_.”

Rhodey barks with laughter. “You looked ridiculous,” and Steve is inclined to agree, now that he’s seen both presentations of it, but would never admit to aloud. He is, however, the only one of them with any such reservations, as Tony’s appearance in the main hall is met with Clint’s immediate “Oh thank fuck” and Bruce’s heartfelt “Now it’s less of a chore to pretend to take you seriously.” The mood from earlier lightens with his return as well, aside from how Natasha still won’t speak to him, to any of them, and how Tony never gives her the chance to try. He moves past her without a glance in her direction, and when talking to the others he refuses to situate himself where she is at his back. The only tell that’s she’s noticed is the way that her accent is more pronounced in the few quiet sentences they get from her.

The queen – Pepper, she’d allowed them all to call her, but none of them seemed able or inclined to – enters the hall around midday and nods a greeting to the assembled Wardens before turning at last in Tony’s direction. “Mister Stark,” she greets him, the formal words of a queen to an equal lost in the wobbly smile he can’t quite contain and the echo she gives at his response.

“Miss Potts.”

She turns to the Wardens then, hands folded primly in front of her, and for all that she insisted they not stand on ceremony before her – there was no need among only them, she said time and again – they do so anyway. To Tony and Rhodey she might be Pepper, might be a younger sister and an old friend, but to the rest of them she is and always has been their beloved queen. “Captain Rogers,” she begins, and he doesn’t recognize the name or title as his own until Tony leans a shoulder against his and whispers ‘just go with it.’ “I would again offer my gratitude to you and your team, but in light of recent events a mere ‘thank you’ seems to be a gross understatement.”

Steve bows, cheeks pink with a blush. “Just doing our jobs, Your Majesty.”

A delicate eyebrow raises and she meets Tony’s gaze, wordless communication between them as he first raises a matching brow before glancing away sharply, shoulders hunched into a defensive posture that leaves her smiling. When she addresses the group again her queenly mask has slipped, revealing the smirk of the young lady, hair in a messy, sleep-tousled bun, who had introduced herself the night before. “Far and beyond any job you might have signed up for, I would think, but I fear I must ask more of you.”

The answer is immediate. “Anything, Your Majesty.”

She shares another of those unintelligible, silent communications with Tony – this one, however, ends when he mutters something too low to make out that has her schooling her face into blankness as he moves to stand beside Bruce (“Nobody respects me,” he leans into the other man, glaring back at Pepper. “Well sure,” Bruce agrees with a quick squeeze of Tony’s shoulders, “you’re not the king anymore. Now we just sort of lovingly tolerate you.” The effect is immediate, as the taut line of Tony’s back relaxes and he leans further into Bruce’s space.). Clint takes advantage of the moment and presses his bandaged hand into Tony’s grasp, wordless, and Tony begins his usual healing spell. “I don’t want to talk about it,” is the stony explanation.

Tony gets it. He doesn’t want to talk about it either.

“Were you successful in retrieving the treaties?” Pepper’s face loses its youthful softness, gains age and wisdom in the planes and angles of her cheekbones, with the change in demeanor; she asks as a monarch at war, planning a battle. Tony sucks in a breath like he’s been struck by lightning, by a stone fist to the chest, because that feels like a _lifetime_ ago, several lifetimes ago, but that was the last Pepper had heard from them. With everything since he’d almost forgotten that first skirmish together, when they were strangers untested together – it _was_ a lifetime ago.

Natasha passes forward the special case they’d constructed: water and weatherproof, slender enough to fit easily in a rolled blanket or tucked into the bottom of a pack, and all but indestructible. She’d been carrying the treaties since Lothering. It had seemed safest. “This is—” Pepper removes the first delicately, turning the aged skin over and carefully tracing a finger over the faded ink. She sucks in a grateful breath before continuing, returning the fragile document to the safety of the case with shaking hands. “Thank you. Will you—”

When Steve bows again it’s different, one arm clasped across his chest and chin tucked to meet it – it’s an older style, something from a generation past, but suits both Steve and the Captain equally well. “Or die trying,” he promises, voice steady and sure. _By my death, I lay down my life to preserve yours._ “You will have an army.”

The only acknowledgement that Tony gives to Natasha’s presence, when he moves up to fill the space between Steve and Pepper, is the wide berth he gives her when a quicker path would bring him to her side. He doesn’t think he’s otherwise been farther than arm’s reach from her, aside from their skirmishes, in weeks. “What about Stane?”

“Tony,” her voice falters over his name, pained and lost, and he knows in that moment that she feels the betrayal as keenly as he does – for the Wardens Stane is a soldier who abandoned them and a leader who vilified them, but for Tony and Pepper he is a man previously considered family who has since orchestrated their deaths. Pepper might even feel it more sharply than Tony; Stane might be a surrogate father who helped raise him, but he’s a flesh and blood uncle to Pepper. He squeezes her hand. “Our first priority _must_ be the Blight.”

Rhodey closes the circle, leaning his head close to the others and adding on in a low whisper, “Stane will try to stop us.”

Steve shakes his head in violent disagreement. “Stane wants to be king, he would hardly let the world fall to a Blight—”

“Because _he_ wants to be the one to save it,” the arl continues. When Tony glances over his shoulder he makes eye contact with Clint, frowning in a way he takes to mean the elf cannot make out what they’re saying – he mouths ‘later’ and sees Clint immediately relay the message to Bruce.

Pepper breaks in with the voice of reason, a hand at either shoulder of the men arguing across her. “Stane will want to stop us as much as he wants to stop the Blight. He will divide his forces between two fronts, and he will fail.”

“So we don’t,” Tony turns the variables over in his head, weighing options against the many obstacles ahead of them. “Divide our forces, I mean. Or rather, we divide them up smart. Rhodey, Pepper, you two handle the politics – Pep, everyone loves you. Take back the throne, turn as many of the arls to your side as you can and just...” He bites down hard, on both his lip and his feelings. “Arrest Stane for treason. Lock him up somewhere small and dark where he’ll be forgotten. Meanwhile, we’ll raise an army, fight off the Darkspawn.” He grins, and Steve rolls his eyes. “Save the world.”

“I don’t like this,” Rhodey starts, but falls silent at the resigned expression on Pepper’s face. None of them like it, not particularly, but with all sides closing in on them it’s the best they have.

Tony shrugs. “We don’t have a choice.” When Rhodey’s face remains set in its grim reluctance, exhausted as it had been the day before, Tony squeezes his elbow lightly. “Yeah, okay, we might die if we do this. But Rhodey... we _don’t_ do this and _everyone_ dies. You just stay here and—” _My men were needed at the castle_ , he hears the words from their fight yesterday, hears the half-truths and the unsaid and the message hidden between them that he’s only now able to translate into meaning and oh. **Oh**. “Keep Pepper safe for me, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he looks torn between tears or another too-rough embrace, but settles for clasping Tony’s arm. “Of course I will. You know I will.” Tony’s whispered ‘I know, I know’ in response is suspiciously shaky. “And, y’know, I just got you back. Try not to die for real this time.” He steps back to stand at Pepper’s side, a vassal beside his queen, and turns a light voice but a serious expression toward Steve. “You keep him alive for me, you hear?”

“Yes sir.” His answer is equally serious. “I will.”

Pepper gives another speech to the Wardens, or possibly only socializes with them – she turns away and Tony stays, mind buzzing with the past two months and everything that the time has gained and lost and found, and he doesn’t know how much time passes before he’s startled out of it by a firm hand at his elbow. Rhodey tugs him gently, luring him away. “We found the sorcerer early this morning,” he whispers, voice cold. The words are spoken so softly that it takes longer than he’d like for Tony to decipher their meaning, but when he does he nods once in acknowledgement. “Trying to escape through the tunnels. What should we do with him?”

Tony glances back at Pepper, at his Wardens, at the townspeople huddled together looking almost like zombies themselves, lost to their nightmares. He thinks of the villagers and the handful that small remain alive, of the young boy who sought them out for help. He thinks of Lothering, and of Fergus. “Kill him,” he orders, voice harsh and unyielding.

This is the world now.

* * *

They leave for the Circle Tower the following morning, taking the remainder of the day to rest while they can and replenish their packs. Once again Tony retreats to his room behind closed doors, but this time Clint joins him with a haunted smile and a chessboard and emerges some hours later promising that he – that _they_ – will be fine.

If either of them is telling the truth, they’re some of the only ones.

Dark circles smudge the lower lids of Thor’s eyes like bruises, painting him more tired that they ever thought possible, but he waves off concern with the same casual disregard he wears as his primary armor. As the days pass, he speaks less and sleeps even less than that – the man who marches beside them is a watery, washed-out form of the man they picked up in Lothering. Natasha also hasn’t spoken beyond a handful of words, keeping entirely to her own company, and by the third of their nine nights on the road to the Circle Tower she’s stopped setting camp with them. Dummy goes with her, wherever she goes, disappearing into the trees at sundown and returning as the first hints of it rise beyond the horizon. The silence is contagious, catching Bruce in its worrying net, and he sticks to Tony’s side like an anxious second shadow. On the one occasion Steve caught them in hushed conversation, he blinked to catch them speaking a language he couldn’t even place – let alone understand.

Their group, once so strong, fractures.

With only a day and a half before they reach the mage tower, Steve calls them to an emergency, mid morning halt in a secluded clearing and throws his arms up in defeat, ordering the others to ‘work it out’ before they continue any farther. When he returns an hour later it is to a largely abandoned camp and Tony seated alone, the same nervous energy that’s propelled the majority of his actions since Redcliffe spilling over into his hands as they play with whatever he’s got in them.

Steve raises an eyebrow like a question mark and Tony waves off both the inquiry and the underlying concern, fingers twitching and eyes darting in all directions. “I’m good,” he offers, less than convincing, “Really, I’m okay. You know... all things considered.” All things, he doesn’t need to say, including the end of the world. “So Bruce and I have been pooling our collectively staggering intellects and we think we might have something. You know, that will be useful in battles, or if we ever get separated.” His voice doesn’t shake, doesn’t betray any emotion beyond a lack of sleep, because he’s still strangled by the breakdown of being reunited with Pepper and Rhodey and even his own name and he knows he can’t survive a second one. The thought alone, them being separated, hurts the hollow of his chest in a way he doesn’t quite know how to name.

Shrugging away further fanfare, he hands over the shard of pearlescent stone and oh. Okay. It seems as though Steve _wasn’t_ lying about not being magic, not even sensitive, because Tony can feel the way the stone vibrates against his skin and can hear it – not with his ears but with something else, something deeper – singing all the way into his bones, but Steve just stares at it, nonplussed. “Great! What is it?”

Tony blinks and waves his arms in a tiny, tired _ta-daa_ motion. “It’s an opal. Well, part of one.” Steve meets his eyes blankly, void of recognition, and it’s barely even magic at this point but simple wives’ tales and folklore. “Opals?” Oh. “Opals, they resonate like... like plucking a string. Each stone resonates at a specific frequency, and – honestly, Bruce, you better handle this one. You’re better at this than me.”

“Opals have a natural affinity for magic,” comes Bruce’s voice, clear and crisp as though he’s standing beside them, but he’s not. Instead his voice comes from the shard of opal in Steve’s palm. It’s more than worth the hours of experiments and too many sleepless nights to see the way the normally calm man twitches in an aborted jump, glancing from left to right to nothing at all. “We used a scrying spell and a communications charm, worked them into the stone, and then had Thor break it into six pieces. These pieces, they... they recognize each other as that same frequency, and they can talk to each other. Or, rather, we can talk to each other through them.”

“Where are you?” Steve’s voice is quiet, almost reverent.

There’s a rustle of a map and a soft conferring of voices, what sounds like Natasha, in response. “About four miles east of your location,” he sounds nothing less than smug, and Steve’s face slackens even further into awe. “What about you, Clint?”

“Ten miles.” Despite the distance, Clint’s voice is equally clear.

Steve closes his hand around the shard of opal, staring into the distance to the east as though looking for the others, as though the stone could see across great distances as well – which, he doesn’t want to say, it might. Tony and Bruce had speculated as much but hadn’t yet had time to test the theory – before turning that toothy smile of his on Tony, the one that hits him like a punch to the gut. “Tony,” he breathes the name out like a prayer, “this is... this is amazing.”

A coil of pride deep in his stomach, something warm and safe and unfamiliar, loosens the stranglehold of Stane’s betrayal and the lingering presence of death that follows them like a hungry beast. He takes what feels like his first breath in days, in weeks, and instantly coughs around the choking realization that Steve is _smiling at him_. It’s not, on its own, a strange occurrence – Steve is endearingly, irritatingly warm with his friends, and apparently considers Tony such, bright smiles and light touches to the arm or the shoulder that make it impossible not to smile back, but this is—

This is a softer smile, something special, a smile with his whole face that looks relaxed and easy. Like it’s not even an action, not even a thought. Like it’s just his face and he is smiling – because of Tony. Whatever loosened in his stomach tightens again, someplace higher in the ribs where there used to be an empty space and a well of magic, and his brain goes muggy like it does in the altitude, soft and slow, focusing only on that smile and the plotted multitude of ways to keep it. He wants to keep this smile, this moment, keep the crinkled lines at the corners of these cornflower eyes and—

Oh, he realizes.

 _Oh_.

He panics.

“It _is_ amazing,” he agrees, nodding in affirmation and throwing a glance over his shoulder and back – four miles. Ten miles. He is alone. “Everything is amazing. And I bet I can go... magic stuff...” The smile doesn’t fade even as he turns away, burned like a brand into the back of his eyes, and Steve nods as though he understands. “You know. For later.”

He tells himself that he absolutely does not hurry, nor flee, nor run away.

* * *

“Black widow.”

He greets Natasha and Bruce at the tree line, hair sticking up like he’s run his hands through it more than once, and repeats the gesture while nervously bouncing on the balls of his feet. Bruce politely and knowingly excuses himself, slipping around Tony to head in the direction of the camp. Natasha looks to follow, tiptoeing around Tony like he hasn’t spoken to her in a week and a half – he hasn’t – but she waits when he reaches a hand toward her, stopping inches from her wrist. “What?”

The hand falls from near her arm to gesture at the crimson hourglass that adorns the buckle of her belt and the pommel of her knives. “ _Leirode’ys_. It doesn’t quite translate across but we – Shems, I mean – call it ‘black widow.’” He doesn’t say that he forgives her, because he doesn’t, and he doesn’t say that he’s sorry because he’s got too much to be sorry for.

She understands – so does she. “Black widow,” she repeats slowly, testing the foreign words against her tongue with a thoughtful expression that ends in one of her soft, private smiles. “I like that.” Mirroring his action from earlier, she reaches out a hand to stop it a few inches from touching him; he leans forward, only an inch, and she takes the permission to run her fingers through his hair, gently taming the damage. Nails the color of blood scratch at his scalp as she pins him with a knowing look. “Steve?”

That too loose, too tight feeling returns; he nods helplessly. “Steve.”

“You’re pathetic.” The words are sharp like her blades but everything else about her is soft; he’s confused by her, has been since he met her, and the opposites she embodies. Natasha is cold as she is compassionate, distant and close in turn. One is the character she was trained to be, and one is the person she is – he thinks maybe, after all of this, he’s starting to tell which is which. “Come on, _lethallin_ ,” the endearment is warm and easy, and it settles some of the panic that still beats wings against his ribs. “Show me how these opals work.”

II.

The ferry is gone.

The docks are intact, the tavern as well, but the ferry is missing and the boatman seems more than reluctant to speak with them. Even a barely-veiled threat from Natasha, which admittedly left his voice with a bit of a tremor and a higher pitch of panic, could not encourage his cooperation.

“I don’t like it,” Clint murmurs, voice as low as he’s hunched on the stool. He cradles the mug between his hands without ever drinking from it, gaze fixed outward. They’re situated in the farthest back corner of the tavern, heavily-mailed and strangers to this small town, and despite their best attempts otherwise the combination draws whispers and glances like flies to honey.

Steve manages another surreptitious glance around his own mug, to the bar where the innkeeper stands aggressively polishing a row of clean glasses and not subtly watching them, before loosening the catches that secure the shield to his pack. “Something is definitely going on here,” he agrees casually, an easy smile on his face, and he reaches one arm back into a stretch that manages to land three vials of lyrium in Tony’s lap. The others take his hint and, as quietly and nonchalantly as possible, rearrange themselves and their weapons for quickest mobility.

Two men approach the innkeeper and begin a conversation in hushed tones; one of them, the larger of the two, had accompanied the boatman when they attempted to question him earlier. The second man is smaller and leaner, scarred across the face, and stands with his back to the corners the same way that Natasha does. When Tony looks over to meet her gaze she nods her head once, slowly, and the others (the others excepting Clint, who still won’t address her directly. It’s been nearly two weeks and the tension between them is strained and palpable) understand: this man is an assassin.

“We could always leave.” Clint eyes the three men at the bar and the four more along the wall, all some measure of armed and all watching them with clear dislike, and leans closer. “Swim for it, I mean.”

“No,” Tony says sharply, too sharply, cutting through Bruce’s calmer “That’s not a viable option.” They arrived to the boat nowhere to be found and Tony had spent a few moments on the shore, listening to the sound of the waves lapping the rocks, trying to breathe through the panic. “This island was chosen to house the Circle Tower for a reason,” Bruce continues, voice too steady to be natural; he’d been shoulder to shoulder with Tony’s earlier panic attack, knuckles clenched white and veins bulging green. “There are sulphur vents that open at the base of the lake, and the water is – it’s too hot to swim across, and borderline toxic. We’d never make it.”

“That’s—” Clint seems torn between horrified and impressed, “sort of awesome. But also complete overkill, I mean who would be dumb enough to attack a mage tower anyway?”

Bruce’s voice does not falter, but his expression does. “It’s not to keep anyone _out_ ,” he all but whispers. Tony shifts his weight to lean against Natasha’s, who presses two fingers against the pulse at his wrist in a now familiar gesture; somehow, it quiets.

“Then we need a boat,” Steve breaks the uncomfortable silence with the effortless, enviable stability he offers their group. The change in topic, back to the present and away from the past, gives them all just enough time to regain their composure. “Even if the ferry is missing, this town is built on a lake – _someone_ has to have some form of boat.”

“I am sure that they do.” Thor’s growing prominence for few words had gotten only worse since leaving Redcliffe, along with the lines of exhaustion marring his face, but he continued to wave off their concern. Hearing him now is the most they’ve heard from him in days. “But I doubt they will lend us use of it.” When he settles in his chair, leaning against the wall behind them, he turns his attention quite obviously to the men at the bar; the men, to their credit, stare back. A smile containing a bit of his old vigor flicks across his face. “Willingly, that is.”

Tony downs one of the vials of lyrium with reluctance, tucking the empty glass into one of the slots in Natasha’s sleeves meant for poison. “Don’t tell me,” he pockets the other two. “This is one of those situations we end up fighting our way out of, isn’t it.”

“Shut up, Stark.” Steve’s voice is so fond that the name – the one he’s been running from for so long, the one that still makes him flinch – doesn’t even register until the moment has already passed. By the time his brain catches up that he’s Stark now, again, Natasha has already slid across him and bullied him into the corner (“I don’t need a babysitter,” he tells her, “and with Pepper alive I’m not in line for the throne anymore.” She pats his cheek just a touch too firm to be friendly. “This isn’t about you,” she speaks as though to a child, “but about your tendency to blow things up. Now go sit in the corner before I _make you_.”) and Thor is braced against the table in an entirely different manner.

The three men at the bar do not look up as the door opens, three more joining their huddle as a fourth emerges from the storeroom at the back; the trio from outside position themselves with sight lines to the doors and refuse to turn their backs to the innkeeper or the two men at the bar with him. Tony doesn’t need to look to Natasha for confirmation this time – of the seven, four are warriors of some kind, likely hired assassins (and he swallows down the surge of bile and betrayal because he knows, _knows_ who sent them), while the other three are likely townspeople and unlikely to be familiar with combat. They confer briefly and, when the innkeeper sets the glass he’d been pretending to clean on a shelf beneath him, Steve hefts the shield and Clint nocks an arrow. Bruce wordlessly hands his glasses to Tony.

Arms down at his sides, Steve faces the men at the bar; the elves that flank him, blades and bow drawn, keep their eyes trained on the three by the entrance. “We don’t want to hurt anyone,” his voice is calm, steady, the sort of voice that sounds like you can trust it. “We just want passage across the lake.”

The innkeeper’s eyes narrow, and his voice is heavy with suspicion. “You’re only after the boat?”

“Yes.”

If anything, the agreement has the man narrowing his eyes further. “Been a lot of weird noises coming from the Tower. _Weird_ noises, like something awful unholy.” When he leans against the bar his stance is open and aggressive, and the other two townspeople mirror him. The assassins look as tightly wound as springs, ready to snap. “Haven’t seen any Templars coming or going in a time, either.”

Tony elbows past Clint, ignoring Bruce and Natasha’s grab for him to stand beside Steve. “How long?” The others might be armed, but Tony is only a man – it’s enough that the innkeeper uncrosses his arms and loosens his spine, and the assassins (he suspects now that the townspeople are unaware of their trade, or their intent) reach for their blades. “How long has it been since the Templars retreated to the island?”

The innkeeper shrugs, voice more relaxed. “Not quite a fortnight... a day or two shy, maybe.”

The calculations come all too quickly and Tony leans his head toward Steve’s, voice a low whisper; behind him, he can hear Clint repeating the words to Thor and Bruce in his native tongue to mask them from the others. “The attacks on Redcliffe began twelve days ago,” he says pointedly.

“Something tells me that’s not a coincidence.”

Tony breathes out a rush of air in a low growl, fists curling into balls from anger – the light in his chest stays thankfully hidden beneath his shirt, but he can feel the pull of energy beneath his skin like a brand. “Stane is organizing a coup,” the pieces fall into perfect, terrifying place, “and taking out everyone who doesn’t side with him. He and Rhodey have always been at odds, and Stane has always spoken against the Circle – hell, the Templars are practically in his pocket—”

“Wait,” Steve’s brow furrows in confusion. “Wait, I thought _he_ was a mage?”

“That’s not widely known.” Tony ignores the obvious, that Stane has already turned on his own family without a second’s hesitation, that it’s hardly a surprise he’d turn on his people as well, but from the subtle flinch at his shoulder it’s clear that Steve has remembered. “And I imagine he uses it to his advantage – he won’t need the support of the Circle if he’s got the Templars at his back... he can just take it by force.” At their whispers, whatever report built with the innkeeper vanishes; his eyes narrow in distrust and his shoulders tense in a cornered, ready sort of way. Tony tries another smile, to no avail – both the innkeeper and his friend’s faces set into stony misgivings. “Yep,” he whispers. “This is _totally_ one of those situations we end up fighting our way out of.”

Steve sighs in defeat as he hefts the shield onto his forearm. “Don’t blow anything up,” he warns, but does not bully Tony to the back of the group.

“Don’t kill the townspeople if you can help it!” Tony calls back to the others in Elvhen, and it says a lot toward how far they’ve come that Steve doesn’t ask for a translation of the command before nodding his head to second it. The simple gesture of trust allays some of the anxiety building, the nervous energy that Tony always feels before a fight, two parts adrenaline to three parts fear-dread-anger- _Iamnotakiller_ , replacing it with something almost more dangerous that he instantly locks away.

Clint is the first to move, arrow nocked and drawn before the motion registers, and it releases with a sharp whistle before burying in the wood of the shelves behind the innkeeper. He lets out a sharp cry of pain and Tony sees that he’s been pinned through the meat of his bicep – not a crippling wound but definitely a painful one, and one that should remove him from the field of play for the duration of the fight. No sooner has the string been loosed before the assassins slide into action, slender blades emerging from hidden folds within their clothes. One ends with a jerk of his hand that sends a narrow blade at Tony, but Steve twists his body and the knife deflects off the shield with a sharp clank. “Thanks,” he grins.

“Don’t mention it,” the Captain doesn’t smile back, and returns the blade to its owner with lethal precision.

A single shout is their only warning before Thor strains his legs against their placement on the table and sends it end over end, chairs and dishes clattering to the floor in a wave of chaos and destruction – the assassin by the bar leaps to the side to avoid it, recovering his footing with impressive speed. The first blade drawn is thrown, scoring a glancing hit across Thor’s forearm, and the second follows in rapid succession. This one catches against his ribcage, almost down to the bone, but Thor ignores the pain to respond with a vicious uppercut from the hammer that strikes the assassin’s elbow joint from its opposite direction.

Bruce begins the words to a healing spell, voice gravelly and rough – it takes longer than it usually would, the verse bit out between lips turning a dangerous green, but soon enough the white flash flares around the wound on Thor’s side and leaves it the shiny pink of a new scar. He salutes a brief gesture of gratitude before he lands another blow, this time with the butt of the wooden handle, against the assassin’s skull to knock him unconscious.

In the distraction bought by the table’s charge the Captain had made it to the bar, easily deflecting the outraged attacks of the two remaining townspeople with their wooden clubs. He braced the shield against both arms to catch the blows, responding only with kicks or punches and not the brutal jabs he used against Darkspawn in an effort to cause no lasting harm. It was a noble intention that they did not seem to share as the larger of the two traded his bat for a bottle smashed to a jagged point against the edge of the bar, gouging a wicked cut across the back of the Captain’s dominant hand.

The final of the assassins are dropped with relative speed, one with arrows buried deep in both thighs and the torso and the second with a slender knife drawn across the throat, and with their deaths the townspeople lose whatever fighting spirit they had found. Within seconds they throw down their weapons and crowd against their pinned friend, eyes wide and fearful.

“We just want a boat,” Steve repeats, voice drawn taut with pain, and Tony mutters a brief ‘you idiot’ before the words that will close the wound on his hand; behind him, he hears Thor decline a similar offer from Bruce and instead wrap the wound on his arm in a length of cloth borrowed from the cloak of the assassin at his feet. A second hiss of pain from the innkeeper, this time as one of his companions snaps the shaft of the arrow to free him, and Bruce moves slowly within reach; they flinch back from his approach. When the same white flash envelops the man’s arm, however, they turn considering eyes on Steve.

“You’re Templars, then?”

Tony interrupts smoothly. “Yes,” he lies, glancing pointedly at Steve to follow the ruse (“I wasn’t going to correct him,” Steve tells him later as they row the boat across the lake. “ _You’re_ the idiot who keeps telling everyone that we’re Grey Wardens.”). “Something’s gone wrong at the Tower, as you’ve noticed. We’re here to settle things.

All fight and fury wrung out of him, the man nods weakly in thanks to Bruce before jerking his thumb back toward the storeroom. “I’ve got a boat out back,” he admits, voice tired. “She’s not much more than a rowboat, but she’ll get you across the lake.” Thor rights the table he’d thrown, which wobbles unsteady on a broken leg, before joining the others at the door. “Tell me,” the innkeeper calls after them, voice stronger now. “Is it as bad out there as the rumors are saying?”

Steve nods grimly. “The queen is dead,” he buries the lie among the otherwise bleak truth, and the three men fall silent with faces pinched in fear. “And the northern towns are lost to the Darkspawn, as far south as Lothering. Criminals are preying on the panic.” At this he casts a glance to one of the fallen assassins, and watches the realization spark into anger in the men’s eyes; Tony doubts the survivor will stay that way for long, but can’t bring himself to care. He’s _tired_.

Steve steps carefully over the body of an assassin to push open the door, admitting a cool breeze that smells faintly of the sulphur beneath the lake, and Tony tosses a handful of gold coins to the innkeeper on their way out. “Sorry about the mess.”

III.

The gates to the Tower are barred from the inside.

Tony lets loose a litany of curses in a handful of languages, seamlessly stitching together a handful of tongues until words blend only into sound and frustration, and throws a rock from the shore against the wood with an angry cry. The sound echoes in the silence, echoes in a way that it shouldn’t be able to, and then a hollow voice speaks from everywhere and nowhere all at once. “None shall enter.”

“Grey Wardens!” he yells back, ignoring the angry, incredulous look that Steve pins on him and the muttered ‘ _really_?’ to run a hand laces with blue lightning along the edges of the gateway. There’s a responding crackle of energy from the warding spells etched into the mortar, something low and powerful, and he snatches the hand back as though it’s been burned. “We have a treaty here that says you need to let us enter.”

For a too-long moment of time there’s nothing, no reaction of any kind, and Tony feels foolish for yelling at the mist and the stones – and then there’s a soft _pop_ as the spells release and a grating yawn as the gates wheeze open, and then there’s a battalion of heavily armed Templars facing them down across the rocky shore. Suddenly the enormity of how terrible an idea this all was, coming here, crashes down around Tony with a ringing in his ears and a tightness in his chest. From the way the Templars focus their attentions on him, it’s obvious that they _know_. It takes every ounce of strength to keep from ducking behind Natasha or Steve, from ducking away back to the boat and the mainland, and he thinks it’s not strength at all but instead the freezing of panic, and his throat squeezes tight and he can’t get the words out and—

“He’s a Grey Warden,” Bruce snarls, suddenly beside him, and his voice is vicious in a way it’s never been, not even as the Hulk. “You have no jurisdiction over him.”

A few of the Templars sneer in response, but the main phalanx falls back; the two that remain bear the insignia of importance across their armor. One removes his helm to reveal a man in his early fifties, face lined and hair silver, who does not look pleased to see them. “Wardens,” he addresses only Steve and Thor, voice curt, “I am Greagoir, Knight-Commander of Kinloch Hold.” He gets no reply from the Wardens, not even a nod of acknowledgement from Steve, and his speech becomes less formal, more bored. “I can only assume the treaty you refer to is one signed in a previous century. Unfortunately, I must insist that a change in times implies a change in terms as well.”

It’s Thor who shoulders his way to the front, tall and broad in a way Greagoir only is due to his heavy plate mail, and the shroud of exhaustion seems to have been lifted. When he speaks, it’s too easy to pretend he is who he claims. “There is to be no change in terms. Your knights are honor-bound to comply.”

Greagoir takes a step backward. “It is an antiquated agreement!”

“And yours is an antiquated station!” He grows stronger with his conviction, golden and bright, and Tony fights the smile he feels tug a reply to Thor’s passionate defense – they’ve been too long without him as anything but a few words and a tired man, and hearing him rejuvenated in Tony and Bruce’s honor has the austere surroundings feeling nearly safe. “You govern a free people with an iron fist and blood magic, claim it is for their protection as though they were no more than the children you steal—”

“Stand _down_ , Thor.” Steve’s voice rings clear with command. Thor clenches his hands so tightly that his arms begin to shake from the strain of it, anger coiled like a caged animal, but he does, slowly, back down.

“The Templars are an abhorrent breed,” he snarls, first to the Wardens only and then again, louder, tossed over his shoulder with a vicious glare; though they give no outward sign of hearing, their retreat into quiet confidence shows the Templars have. “They kidnap children who display even the slightest of magical sensitivity, imprison them in this tower, they – they use their very _blood_ to control them—”

Steve manages to tear his gaze away from Tony and Bruce long enough to offer Thor a calming expression that does not reach his eyes. “I know, Thor, I _know_. And I don’t like this any more than you do, but—” He wearily scrubs a hand over his face, dark stubble and darker circles under his eyes, and none of them have slept properly since Redcliffe. Since before. “If we’re to have any hope of stopping the Blight, we _need_ them.”

The fight leaves Thor in a tired sigh, leaving him deflated and weary again like he’s been since Lothering. “Very well.” Reluctantly, with hands still clenched into white-knuckled fists and exhausted frame held up with a spine rigid from anger, he falls back into loose formation with the other Wardens; he stands between the Templars and Tony and Bruce protectively, shoulders broad. The Templars end their conference and step forward for further negotiations, and Steve meets them halfway. His movements angle the shield, still free from its covering, _just so_ and the star at the center catches the sparking reflection of the wards; the younger Templar has his arm half-outstretched as though to check the older knight, but Greagoir is slumped, defeated, looking every inch his age.

Steve offers no apologies. “You are bound by treaty,” and both nod their heads in acknowledgement, “to turn over the assistance of both the Templar knights and the Circle mages to us. Will you honor the agreements?”

There’s a moment of pause that feels too much like a refusal, a quiet second where the younger knight averts his gaze and pinches his lips like he’s trying to reveal something secret, but he is otherwise unresponsive. Instead it’s Greagoir who heaves a breath and answers for them. “I will speak candidly with you, Warden,” he says, but his face displays that he would much rather not. “The Tower is no longer under the control of the Templar order.”

The sudden shift in Steve’s muscles, the tensing from talk to action from surprise, draw the Wardens forward – despite their initial feelings, it is Tony and Bruce who stand beside him, the latter leaning forward into the knight’s space and speaking in soft, worried tones. “What do you mean exactly?” It speaks to their desperation that the Knight-Commander does not hesitate in his report to the apostate mages he had threatened only minutes before.

“Twelve days ago,” he begins, and blood runs cold. This _cannot_ be a coincidence – Redcliffe and whatever is happening here at the Tower are related. “A groups of our mages barricaded themselves on the upper level and we were unable to reach them. Magic,” he mistakes their sudden collective blankness for confusion, explaining in brisk phrases, “was shielding them from our scryers. The Templars I sent to investigate never returned, and the Templars I sent in search of the first unit...” He glances back at the Tower, face a mixture of dread and contempt. “Then the abominations came. They swept through the upper levels within the hour, and the few we were able to evacuate – we have held them at bay for ten days now, but yesterday... Yesterday they broke through our ranks and now control the entire Tower, minus our great hall beyond the gates. They have killed all but three units of my knights and, to the best of my knowledge, all of the mages.” This time, when he turns his address to Tony and Bruce, his voice is kindled with the same spark of derision. “I have received approval from the capitol. My men are preparing the Rite of Annulment as we speak.”

It is only the combined reflexes of the four trained warriors that keeps a fight from breaking out at the words. Thor, who had slowly moved forward over the course of the conversation, uneasy with the mages being that close to Greagoir, wraps Bruce in a bear hug and immediately hauls him backwards. As it is, it takes the help of Clint and Natasha to fully restrain him – the burning anger in his eyes is purely human, no shades at all of their sometimes green, but the three of them are barely able to keep him from lunging at the knights. Tony is less expressive in his fury, going limp when Steve grabs him in a matching grip but turning deathly white against the sudden fizzle of electricity that crackles around him like a second skin.

“Control your spellcasters, Warden,” Greagoir aims the barb at Steve, who briefly considers releasing the tight hold that has Tony’s arms pinned to his sides. “Or I will do it for you.”

They manage to drag the still spitting Bruce, whose curses have fallen into a different language entirely, and Tony back to the boat moored at the shoreline for a hasty regrouping. Tony stays pliant and worn, dropping to a heavy seat against the rocks of the shore, and Steve joins the tight huddle with an even tighter grip on the other mage. “Bruce,” he uses his hands and his words to draw Bruce’s focus to his own face. “The Rite of Annulment. What is it?”

“It’s,” his words come in stops and starts, “it’s a spell, the Templars – once you enter the Circle, they take a bit of your blood. So they can control you, so they can – the Rite of Annulment, it... it would purge the Tower of life. Anything, any _one_ left alive in there would be destroyed. All the mages, even those who were evacuated – it would kill them all.” He rubs absently at a place on his arm, no scars but the ones on his memories, and Tony reaches out to grab his hand away, tangling their fingers together.

Too many of them are keeping hands on Bruce to catch Steve when he storms away, back up the banks to stand toe to toe with Greagoir. “Give us one day,” and the order is obvious. Greagoir, out-ranking Steve and out of his chain of command, visibly bristles, but the same wide stance that seemed so formidable before seems now to be only an old man small in his armor. “We’ll clear the Tower, restore order.”

He nods in resignation, just once. “I will give you six hours.” When he sees Steve’s mouth open in protest, he holds up a silencing hand. “And I will accept only the assurances of the First Enchanter. On his word that the Tower is clear, I will forgo the cleansing.” Eye cold, he draws himself back into his rank and reputation to stand tall once more. “This is still my Tower, Wardens, and I will not allow further risk to my men – or to the surrounding countryside – should they fall. You may have six hours.”

When Steve returns with the conditions, face guarded, Bruce nods gratefully. “Six hours,” he repeats, “let’s do it quickly then.” Tony doesn’t realize that he’s nodding in vehement agreement until his vision goes blurry, soft around the edges from movement and blood flow.

“The three of us are going in,” Steve tells the group, gesturing between himself and Tony and Bruce. “You two are the magic users, so you’ll probably be the only useful ones. And I’m—”

“I know,” Tony’s only half teasing, too busy pulling himself to his feet and readying to go, “to stop me from blowing things up. I get it. It was _one time—_ ”

Steve’s hand at his wrist – and Natasha’s done the same move countless times now, a light touch of her fingers against the point of his pulse, even Clint or Bruce to get his attention, but _this_ knocks his thoughts off track entirely – has him silent. “I’m going as insurance,” he says softly, so softly, “to keep the Templars from going ahead with the Rite once you’re inside and just calling you both collateral damage.” Warmth lodges in his chest and the hollow that used to be a heart skips a beat, and the well of lyrium burns against his ribs.

“I’m going too,” Natasha informs them, voice nothing but hard edges and soft tones; nothing about her, expression or stance, welcomes any words to the contrary. “Close quarter combat, you’ll need me.” Steve nods.

“Clint, Thor – six hours pass and I want you gone, you hear me?” It’s their captain in the command, for all he’s only Steve right now, and though everything about them begs a refusal they both reluctantly agree. “Take the treaties, find Thor’s hammer... you do what it takes to stop this, you understand?”

Thor grips Steve’s forearm, mouth opening as though to disagree, but instead he leans in and rests his forehead against Steve’s own. “Be safe, brother.” The gesture is repeated with Bruce and again with Tony, and when he turns to Natasha he instead offers her a swift salute, arm crossed across his chest and over his heart, and follows with a short bow. “Keep them safe, _liantë_. On my life, I will do the same.” Her eyes flick minutely to where Clint stands, eyes hard and hand clenched in the straps of Dummy’s harness so tightly that the leather squeaks dangerously, before she mirrors Thor’s farewell.

“On my life, you know I will.”

She finally turns to Clint, and they haven’t spoken in ten days but if there were ever a time, Tony thinks, fear souring into bile in his throat because this is goodbye, they are _saying goodbyes_ , this would be it. The archer does not turn away so much as turn to address the group as a whole. “Six hours,” he says, and the smile cracks across his face like the tremor cracks through his voice – unconvincingly. “I’ll see you in six hours. Or less, if you ever stopped gabbing and actually got to work.”

They walk to the gates as a single group, where Steve passes Greagoir with a terse nod of his head. “Six hours,” he repeats. Reassures.

“We will bar the door once your men are through,” Greagoir waves to the guards in the inner hall to open the doors. The evacuated mages, only seven in number, follow the motion with hope in their gazes. “And will not open them again until the First Enchanter assures it is safe to do so.”

The doors creak open, inch by fragile inch, to reveal a slowly-growing sliver of darkness and the uncertainty beyond. With a final nod of acknowledgement to Greagoir and a last lingering glance at Thor and Clint – and Dummy, too old a dog for such terrible new tricks, and he licks Tony’s hand while he can still reach – they slide through the gap into the tower proper. Their final view backwards is of the hound straining against his harness, against Thor’s grip as he tries to follow the master he’s already followed across lifetimes.

The door slams shut behind them, the scrape of a heavy beam to bar it closed, and everything begins to feel very, _very_ final.

IV.

The door slams shut and leaves them in almost total darkness, only the dim glow of Tony’s chest through his shirt lighting the immediate surroundings – and even then only barely, casting eerie shadows in the spaces over their shoulders and hollowing the points of their faces into a caricature of skulls. Natasha tenses, hands going unerringly to the blades she cannot see, but then there’s a groan from the mechanisms of the doors again and Steve looks to Bruce in question. “Double doors,” he clarifies, standing quiet and calm, and now a small sliver of light catches in the glass of his spectacles. “For... security.”

It’s too easy to forget that, for some, this is a prison.

While the first set of doors had opened only enough to allow them to slip between one by one, the second open entirely to a well-lit hall some thirty feet across – they’d been standing in the hollow between the two sets, and Tony’s skin prickles at his back with the renewed wards behind them. The second doors do not close when they pass through, and he takes it as a good sign.

A group of students, none more than children save the three who are older, though only by comparison – the boy looks somewhere around twelve and neither of the girls can be more than fourteen – stand in the far corner, eyes wide and hands raised with spells they have barely learned. An older woman, hair white and face lined, stands between them with her staff planted firmly against the stones; Tony can’t help but notice that she’s using it more to stand than to spell cast. “Who are you?” she spits out, and though her body might have weakened there’s steel in her voice.

Steve removes his helmet and pushes back his mailed cowl, and while the mage doesn’t stand down she does relax at the sight of him, clearly a human and not of the Templars. “Grey Wardens, ma’am,” and the words are a magic all their own – the elder mage’s body goes loose with relief and the children surge forward, half clamoring around her and the other half ringing them in a curious circle.

“Thank the Allfather,” she breathes, hugging the smallest of the students to her side. “I thought that—” She stops, swallowing the words with an audible sound as she gazes down at the child, barely six, that clings to her robes. “I thought that perhaps the Templars had... arranged an alternate solution.”

Bruce lets out another of his muffled curses, and Tony hopes it’s not obvious the way that his blood is suddenly boiling, burning with anger and indignation, the way he feels as though his body is about to combust from it. Natasha makes no move to calm him, and for once the feeling of fire across his skin might actually not be from the literal. It scares him then, how much it scares him to feel human for a change. “They,” Steve lowers his gaze, addressing the mage in a hushed voice, “we have six hours.” She shoos the child away to join the others before limping closer.

“Tell me.”

“We came seeking aid of the Circle against the Blight,” Steve begins, but Tony cuts him off with a firm touch against his side – five hours and fifty-seven minutes, patience vanishing with the countdown of a clock, red numbers in the back of his brain, and they _don’t have time_ for the damn backstory.

“The Templars believe the Tower is lost,” he pitches his voice low, caught in their circle where it won’t carry to the children. “They’re going ahead with the Rite in about six hours, unless we can clear the Tower. What’s happening?”

The old woman looks him up and down, clearly an appraisal because he’s not armed or armored in any way but he’s not dressed in the robes of a mage either – neither is Bruce, too impractical for the road – and he must look entirely out of place among warriors or Wardens; whatever she’s looking for, she seems to find. “He’s gone insane,” she tells him, but doesn’t clarify who ‘he’ is. “And he’s got followers. We’re the only ones left. I managed to get us this far before the Templars sealed the gates, and we’ve been warding the room ever since.” Her skin is grey and haggard, exhaustion taking its toll on an already aging body but when Tony glances to the opposite wall the door is warded strongly, magic unwavering even though its mage is.

“Beyond the wards?” Steve finds his voice again, tugging the cowl back over his skull but doing nothing to shrug off the casual rest of Tony’s hand.

“Abominations,” the word is a whisper, a whimper too quiet for the children to hear, though they must already know (“Mages gone dark side,” Tony doesn’t have far to lean to whisper an answer to the question he doesn’t need to look to see forming on Steve’s lips. “Can’t be saved. They’re more monster than man at this point. Killing them would be a mercy.” The admission aches, all the way down to his bones; as far as the Templars are concerned, he and Bruce are no better.). “The Templars that weren’t killed have been possessed, though there’s no sign of the demon behind it.”

Tony takes a breath and squares his shoulders, the same way he’s seen Steve and the Captain do countless times now, because he can feel panic taking up residence as a tingle in his extremities and he thinks he needs a bit of their calm confidence to survive. “We go in,” he tells the elder mage, “and you don’t lower those wards for any reason. Understood?” It’s clear she doesn’t from the way her brow furrows and her mouth opens, but Tony focuses his attention, leading hers, to the children. “If the time comes... if we fail... knock five times on the gate. One long, two short, two long.” Behind him, Natasha catches her breath in recognition of the code – it’s one of hers and Clint’s, after all.

Finally understanding, the mage moves to whisper the instructions to the three older children. Tony tries to follow, but Steve catches him by the elbow before he can. “When did you and the others possibly find time to come up with that plan?” He doesn’t sound angry that he wasn’t included, more impressed, and Tony only wishes he could take any of the credit for it.

“We, uh,” he runs a hand back through his hair. “We didn’t. I just – I know Clint, and I know he won’t stand by and do nothing and let innocent people die.” For someone who’s spent a lifetime scoffing at the idea of faith, Tony hates how little it bothers him, having so much of it in his friend. “So yeah. I’m pretty much counting on him doing something crazy while we’re in here.”

For one tiny, terrifying moment it seems as though Steve might hug him. His eyes go warm and his smile goes soft and his hand at Tony’s elbow squeezes like he’s not sure where to put it, and the panic that Tony felt earlier as a presence in his feet tiptoes up his legs, making his skin itch and his nerves tighten. He feels entirely cornered, despite being nothing of the sort. “You,” and Tony thinks the hug might be a better option, if only so he couldn’t see the fondness that slackens Steve’s face, “are secretly a really good person.”

Tony steps back until he bumps shoulders with Bruce, rebuilding a distance between them with both the literal and the emotional. “Yeah, well,” he winks, or tries to, and mostly just blinks owlishly at the wall, “don’t tell anybody.”

“No one would believe me if I did.” If anything, the half-hearted gesture leaves Steve’s eyes even warmer and his smile even softer, and Tony grabs backwards at Bruce’s arm to steer him toward the illusion of checking the wards.

The wards, as it turns out, are holding steady. Bruce murmurs surprised approval over the precautions that have been built into the floor – opals ring the tiles surrounding the two sets of doors, the wards grounded in them rather than the bricks themselves, and unless the entire foundation were uprooted they would hold even when the gates did not. “Good idea,” he points them out to Tony, crouching to examine them more closely.

Tony hmms a distracted agreement. “We’ve got abominations, possessed Templars, and at least one demon beyond those. The only good idea is staying on this side of them.”

“Good thing you’re the king of bad ideas, then.” Bruce claps him on the shoulder as he rises, motioning for Natasha and Steve to join them – they’ve been checking the children over for injuries, but nothing thankfully had been found. If anything other than scrapes or bruises had occurred, the older children must have healed them by now. He draws their attentions to the opals in the floor as well, this time with less than excited words. “Our communication stones won’t work beyond this point,” but the words turn up at the end like a question, like he’s wondering if that’s true or not. “So we’ll need to stay together.”

“Also,” Tony catches on to the end of his sentence, “getting back through might prove to be... problematic.”

Natasha raises an eyebrow. “Define ‘problematic.’”

(“Good thing you’re the king of bad ideas, then.” Bruce claps him on the shoulder as he rises, but his grip tightens against the fabric of Tony’s sleeve and he won’t make eye contact as he says it; he grabs at Tony’s arm like he’s looking to anchor himself instead of applaud him. Tony fixes his gaze on the wards, on the opals in the stone, on the wooden doors behind and his brain draws a jagged map between the evidence and the implication. This is – this is very not good for them. “Bruce,” he whispers lowly, in Tevene, because Steve and Natasha are coming to join them with a nauseating mixture of trust and hope in their eyes like they’re sure they’ll survive because of Tony and Bruce and their supposed expertise. “They won’t be able to see or hear us past these wards. Knocking, yelling... _anything_. We go through this door and we have no guarantee we can get back.” Bruce won’t meet his gaze. He knows. “So we find another way,” he releases the cloth of Tony’s shirt, fingers shaking.)

Tony shrugs. “We’ll worry about that as we come to it.”

* * *

Through the door is a battlefield.

Bodies, both human and otherwise, litter the hallway like discarded toys; there’s a large concentration in the corner nearest their entrance, right by the door, and both Tony and Bruce pretend not to notice – they couldn’t get through the door, couldn’t be heard shouting for help, but they made no attempt to leave it. There was, is, no place else to go. Bruce finally meets his gaze again and his eyes are determined. Sad.

The first floor is mostly barracks, Tony remembers – the Tower is built as a spiral, only one entrance on the first floor leading to a hallway that winds slowly up to the astronomy room, the only room, on the fifth floor. There are doors branching off both sides of the hall, left and right, that lead to the additional rooms; Bruce goes for the inside wall first. “Templars are quartered on the side closest to the exterior wall,” he explains, “and mages in the center. So they can’t escape.”

Natasha and Steve, urged to action at his words, move further up the hallway to the additional dormitories; after a brief sweep, they shake their heads sadly. Tony, however, focuses his attentions on the Templar barracks while the others check for any survivors among the mages – it’s where he would go, after all, if he were trapped in a tower that came under attack. The dorms might be familiar but the barracks have guard rooms and armories, and while the Templars would never allow any of the mages to keep anything even resembling a weapon in their chambers there’s hope for something across the hall, a knife or a bat perhaps. A training bludgeon. Anything would be better than nothing at all. The first room he enters is entirely trashed, furniture obliterated into scraps with three dead mages piled in the corner. There’s a few dead abominations as well, along with evidence of both magical and physical attacks – one of the mages still clutches a sword in his hand. “Guys,” Tony hisses, forgetting for a moment that their communicator stones don’t work here.

It doesn’t seem to matter, because Steve is at his side in an instant with shield already drawn. “Are you okay?”

Tony shakes his head and gestures to the scene behind him. The three dead mages are gathered in the same general space, backs to the wall for defense, and the one with the sword is slumped against the side of the wardrobe in the corner. Every other piece of furniture, every bed and table and chest, has either been uprooted or destroyed; there’s the remains of a makeshift barricade halfway across the open space of the floor. “The biggest thing in the room and they don’t touch it. Why didn’t they use the wardrobe?” he asks Steve, already moving toward it.

Two children, maybe eight, are huddled at the bottom beneath a nest of blankets and shirts. They look up with big, teary eyes but otherwise make no noise or motion of any kind. “Hey,” Steve greets softly, so softly, but the two only cower away at the sight of unfamiliar men. They both wear the pale yellow robes of students in their second year of study and they curl around each other like kittens, hands clasped, until it’s impossible to tell where one ends or the other begins. The three mages gave their lives protecting them, them and how many others, and Tony can’t help but notice the lack of Templar corpses – they’d abandoned the mages within the Tower, left them to fight and flee and die for ten days now, and he feels the anger deep in his bones, feels it burning against his skin like he’s being eaten alive – Tony takes a breath, and forces himself from the room before he loses control entirely.

The others meet him in the hallway, where Natasha whispers to Bruce with a soft hand against his wrist. “We found four alive in the farthest room,” Bruce croaks, eyes green and voice unsteady. “Two children, a teenager, and their teacher. They hid beneath the bodies.”

He sucks in a breath, but it does nothing to help the tightness in his chest. “We’ve got two girls in a cupboard. Steve is trying to talk them out.”

It’s Natasha who comes up with a solution, and then only the work of minutes for Bruce – for the Hulk, and for once the two blur together like their outlines begin to blur, slowly rippling with the change – to break open the door to Greagoir’s office, the only room on the floor to have been spared the attacks. Conveniently, the only room to have been locked. It’s not comfortable, but it’s clean, and the teacher – Niall, he tells them, gripping their hands weakly in gratitude – manages to convince the children to follow him into it. The two girls from the wardrobe – twins, Niall explains as he settles them down against the carpet beneath the desk – refuse to let go of the other until the teen from the other room finds them. He sobs in relief at the sight and drops to his knees, pulling them into a tight embrace as they both reach for him with shaking hands.

“Stay in here,” Steve tells Niall, working with Natasha to construct a barricade across the doorway; they leave the desk where it is, though it would serve useful, when they find the twins finally asleep beneath it. “The floor is clear, so you’ll be safe. We’ll get you on our way out.”

“Please,” Niall grabs at Steve’s hand, unable to close his fist entirely from exhaustion. “Please, if you find anyone else...”

Natasha lays a gentle hand on his shoulder and presses one of her longer knives into his hand. “Keep them safe, Niall. We will send the survivors to you.” Niall nods his head, both hands wrapped tight around the handle of the blade, and positions himself between the children and the door in a determined, unsteady stance. Natasha helps Steve clamor over the barricade, and they join Tony at the foot of the stairs.

He’s been talking to Bruce, a running litany of nonsense words, since they’d found Greagoir’s office; Bruce had been varying shades of green since then, close to losing himself to anger, and the steady stream of conversation slowly lures him back. “It’s not that I don’t love you, Big Guy,” and Bruce is sitting on the bottom step, chin in his hands – his eyes are poison green but his body is human, muscle and bone no longer surging beneath the surface trying to grow, “but you said it yourself. You don’t get this whole ‘magic thing.’” Bruce – the Hulk? – shrugs his shoulders like a petulant child. “We need that magic thing right now, okay?”

“Okay,” the Hulk, or maybe Bruce, says. His eyes are green and then hazel and then brown. “I’m okay.”

“I’m not,” Tony admits quietly. “I want to tear this fucking tower down and bury the Templars beneath it.” Natasha snarls an agreement in Elvhen.

* * *

The second floor is nearly identical to the first, only they don’t find any survivors.

More than once they’re forced to draw to a stop, waiting for the Hulk to gulp for breath back into Bruce or for Tony to calm the lightning crackle against his skin, and neither Steve nor Natasha can find it in themselves to begrudge the mages their furious breakdowns. In one room, right before the third floor, they find a group of slaughtered children wearing the sage green colors of their first year of study – six years old. Steve throws a chair into the wall, the wood splintering against the impact, so hard that it leaves scratchy dents in the stone.

“How have we let this happen?” His voice is barely audible, the sorrowful whisper at frightening odds with the explosive strength of only a moment before. “How the fuck,” and he throws off Natasha’s quiet hand, “have we just sat back and let _this_ —” His sharp, angry gesture encompasses the children, the room, the Tower as a whole, “happen?”

 It’s like swallowing molten lead, burning down his throat to cool as a sudden weight, the way the words drop in Tony’s gut; Steve’s not talking about the Blight.

“These are _children_ ,” he continues, “taken from their parents and what, left to die? What do the Templars even _do_? Because they sure as hell aren’t here to protect the mages like they claim.”

Bruce has aged another ten years, weary and weak down to the bone, and Tony worries that this is too much for him – for all of them. “They’re... they’re the mages _keepers_.” He’s rubbing his arm again, that same spot marked by old scars that none of them can see. “This is a school, yes, but it’s also a prison. The Templars are the jailers. The...” Tony can’t stand the way that Bruce won’t even look at him now, and the leaden weight in his stomach doubles, pulling him down to the floor until he hopes he’ll fall right through it, hopes he might disappear into the ground to fake his own death again. Hope he maybe doesn’t fake it this time. “The Crown tells the Templars when and where the mages are needed, and the Templars ensure that the mages are there. And they ensure that they _stay_ there, until they’re brought back here.”

“How have we let this happen?” Steve repeats, but Tony hears the question for what it really is – he might not be a fighter or a killer but he was once a king, and he’s a mage as well so these are doubly his people. He doesn’t even hear Stane or his father’s voice in is head this time, because all he can hear is Steve’s broken, accusing tone on repeat: _how have **you** let this happen?_

He doesn’t have an answer.

* * *

The third floor is a warzone.

The abominations swarm as soon as they’re clear of the stairway, hulking beasts of twisted flesh and swollen bodies, that grunt like animals when they attack – their movements are slow, reaching hands and rending claws, but they’re persistent. “Magic doesn’t affect them much!” Bruce yells in warning to Tony, and he shrugs out of his shirt and into the Hulk. He emerges with a heavy stomp of feet against the stone floor and a bone-rattling roar that freezes, if only for a moment, the approaching creatures in their tracks. Steve launches the shield with a violent motion, the same furious movement wrought from rage and sorrow as when he’d thrown the chair, and the abomination he hits is nearly cleaved in half; the shield bounces off the wall behind and back to him just in time for him to catch another with a vicious punch to the chest. There’s a terrible incongruity, seeing him this lethal with an object made primarily to defend.

Tony drops back behind Natasha, feeling generally useless – there’s only one thing he’s ever been good at, and it’s no good to them at all even here in the mages’ tower. She nudges him with her elbow, meeting his gaze with one of her all too knowing looks, and he’s been afraid to ask if she can actually read minds or if it’s only his. “Draw their attention,” she says instead, but they both know that’s not what she was thinking. Maybe, just maybe, Tony can read hers a little bit too now. “And we’ll do the rest.” She slides away from him like a shadow and it’s easy to summon the burning, angry magic from the wellspring in his chest, to let it pool in his hands like a beacon that draws the attention of every beast like moths to a candle flame.

The Hulk doesn’t let any get close enough for Tony to find out just how ineffective his magics might be.

After the battle, when they’ve fought their way through a mass of writhing, pulsing flesh and terrified, too-human eyes that _beg_ for an ending, Steve storms up the staircase without looking back. His feet pound up the steps like Tony’s would-be heart is pounding in his chest, and it’s only the long day and its lack of food that keeps him from heaving himself dry in a corner. Natasha stops at his side, oddly hesitant, and for once she doesn’t lay a hand at his wrist or catch him with a knowing gaze. Instead, she takes his hand in her own and squeezes it once, linking their fingers like a lifeline, and then she does the same for the Hulk. “You’re okay,” she whispers, voice soft. “You’re okay.”

Whether they are or they aren’t, they follow her up the stairs.

* * *

On the fourth floor, they find the Templars.

The once skilled warriors attack with jerky, puppet-like motions – their limbs don’t bend quite as they should and they swing their swords like they’ve got sticks through their arms, but their blades are sharp and their blows are strong. Steve catches the first on his shield, yelling in surprise back down to the others still in the stairwell, and Natasha shoves past Tony to help. It takes both of them to tackle the possessed Templar backwards, and two more take his space. “You said the Templars could be saved,” Steve calls, bashing one across the face, and blood blossoms from a broken nose; the Templar only shakes his head like he can’t feel it and and continues to attack. “If we find the demon—”

Tony grabs the second Templar, the one with a mailed hand locked around Natasha’s throat and another with a blade set to her stomach and pressing hard, _harder_ , by the face. “We have to survive long enough to find it,” he growls as he releases the energy into his palm, burning the man free of Natasha, and this time he doesn’t feel even a twinge of regret. Natasha coughs, a row of bruises painting a purple palmprint across her white throat, and sags forward.

Steve lets her lean against him while Tony heals the cut in her stomach; it’s deeper than he thought, and he’s dizzy by the time the last of the tissue has knit together. “I was going to say ‘don’t bother,’” he admits with a small shrug and a flat voice, and Tony feels some of his misery melt in what would, on any other day, be a smile.

“You’re secretly a really terrifying person.” Tony intends for it to be an offhand remark, something light and teasing to make them forget about the wallowing despair they’re trudging through, but instead his voice comes out warm and friendly. He wants to snatch the words – not the words, just the way he softens around them – back.

And then he doesn’t because the corner of Steve’s mouth tilts up in a smile, even here, even with the stench of death ground into their skin. “Yeah, well. Don’t tell anybody.”

“Don’t worry,” he manages around the sudden crush of the room and his chest and his voice, all too small and too tight now for him to breathe through. “No one would believe me if I did.” Natasha snorts as she passes him, brushing their shoulders together before knocking him back, and kicks open the door at the top of the staircase with a satisfying noise of splintering wood.

They find the demon, and everything goes black.

V.

For the second time in as many months, he claws awake from dreams of darkness and dragons to someone calling his name – this time there’s a weight in the back of his skull like he’s been drinking and a sting in his jaw like he’s been punched, and his first reaction is to reach for his chest and the warm thrumming of lyrium that’s become an unconscious part of him. He finds nothing but smooth skin and a skipping heartbeat, and he snaps into full consciousness.

Panic stampedes through him, relief cooling right on its heels because it was a dream, it was all just a very bad dream, and he runs shaking hands over the chest that feels now unfamiliar – it feels smooth, feels whole. It feels _wrong_. A hand grabs his in a vise-like grip, pulling them, and he realizes then that he’d been scratching at his own flesh and trying to peel it away. “Anthony.” He looks up, eyes swimming at the edges and everything is out of focus – he wonders if the blow to his head caused something to rupture, some permanent damage but no, it’s the world that’s liquid and bleary, not his vision, and he recognizes the wispy, not-quite-there background of the Fade. “Anthony, you need to breathe.” The voice is familiar to him but he can’t reconcile it with the man it belongs to, tan skin and dark eyes and a determined set to his jaw. “ _Breathe_ , Junior.”

“I’m dead for real this time,” he says, only it comes out more as a croak. “Aren’t I.”

The Captain – in his own body this time, and Tony had grown up with the stories and the paintings but he’d always seemed so much larger than life. Something timeless, and legendary. The reality is a dark-haired young man no older than Tony is now with a crooked nose and an even crookeder smile – ducks his head, shrugging helplessly. “I honestly don’t know.”

“Where are the others?” His voice regains a little of its strength, and the ache in his head lessens. “How are you even _here_?” Instantly the words turn bitter with regret against his tongue, regret over the phrasing or the tone or whatever it was that made them come out anger, because the truth is that he’s so glad to not be alone here he thinks he might cry.

Tired, the Captain gestures around them. “It’s the Fade,” and oh. Oh. The Fade, where the spirits of the dead linger, the recently deceased or those with something unfinished, something so great that it draws them here to the veil between worlds and—

“I’m sorry.”

He shrugs his good arm a second time, the motion making his outline go as swimmy as the rest of the Fade, and Tony can see him, can feel him, but he can’t – he doesn’t make sense. The Captain is definitely there, distinct and tangible, but the grip at Tony’s hands is ghostlike and he can see a strange door through the half-there image of the Captain’s torso. “Don’t be. Be useful and figure out what happened to us.”

With a roll of his eyes Tony wracks his brain, pushing beyond the Captain and the Fade and the darkness to just before, to the murky memories of – minutes ago, maybe, or hours. Too long and no time at all. – the chamber and the voice and— “A demon. Probably a desire demon, with the way it messed up my head. They... they give you your heart’s desire, but it’s only a Fade dream.”

The corner of the Captain’s mouth quirks up into that sarcastic, crooked smile. “So am I yours, or are you mine?”

In all their time together, Tony’s never known the Captain to joke. Especially not like this. It surprises him, has his brain reaching for a witty response of his own but dropping far short; Tony bites the inside of his cheek at the thought of getting this far only to have a cocky, long-dead captain get the best of him. “Must be yours,” he tries to remember what his smile looked like, back when he could charm anyone he wanted. “Mine wouldn’t involve as much clothing.” The grip at his hands turns into a shove, knocking him painfully back to the ground, but the Captain is smiling despite it. “My thinking is that it didn’t work on us because, well, you’re dead. And I had my heart and all of its desires removed from my chest and eaten so—”

He’d meant it as a joke, but the words hitch in his throat like his voice hitches up a hysterical octave. This is proof, actual proof, beyond the abstract and the hypothetical knowledge that _they ripped out your heart Tony_ ; here is actual proof that he is very much without a heart. The line between faith and physics skews because he’d known, sure, that his body now ran on magic and clockwork. But this? This is the human soul and what it means, its bearing on a person, and whether the absence of a heart means the absence of the inherent humanness that goes with it. His breathing speeds up to the level where he wonders, absently, if he can black out in the Fade, and the Captain pinches the skin of his forearm sharply. The pain gives him focus, and he slowly calms down.

When he can suck in air without it feeling like swallowing knives, the Captain is politely looking at a point over Tony’s left shoulder. “So the others are elsewhere, trapped in Fade dreams?”

All he can do is shrug helplessly. “Best guess.”

The Captain’s smile twists in annoyance, but it’s not directed at Tony – he glares at the wall behind them like it’s offended him personally, fingers twisting in his hair before he nods in acceptance. “Well, at least we’re armed.” Tony finally takes stock of more than the foreign _thump-thump-thump_ in his ribs and the strange familiarity of his companion: the Captain is wearing his iconic mail, bright blues and reds and white dyed into the metal with magic, and the shield rests easily across his back. Tony is wearing the same clothing he wore on the physical realm (with the exception of the loose button, that seems to have fixed itself). His pack is full.

He hauls himself to his feet, willing away the nausea that is as much the head wound as it is his reaction to the Fade – he’s always hated it, hated the dreamlike, syrupy quality of it, hated the way his brain still go go goes but his body is slow and thick and heavy. “This...” He squeezes his eyes shut, focusing, drawing down to his center like the dwarves taught him, clearing his thoughts when he can’t clear his vision. “This looks like the Tower. Only, you know,” and he wiggles his fingers to demonstrate. “So I guess we need to get to the top?”

Slinging the shield clear and hooking his arm through the leather straps, the Captain nods his readiness. “Lead the way, Junior,” he gestures graciously, but Tony just crosses his arms and refuses to budge.

“I have a name, you know.”

The Captain’s face remains set, grim and distant. “I am aware.”

His glare hardens. “All I meant is that I’m over the whole ‘junior’ thing. Especially now that I know you were maybe my age when you... No more ‘junior.’”

The attempted grin is more of a grimace, edged with just a hint of overindulgence. “Lead the way, _Anthony_ ,” and it’s almost worse.

Tony responds grandly, courteously, as though at a stately ball. “After you, _James Buchanan._ ”

There’s something very vulnerable, very _human_ in the way the Captain’s shoulders sink, the way his shield sags, the way he scrubs a hand back through his hair – helpless and human and oh so young. “Your father was my king and my closest friend, and sometimes it feels like it was only yesterday I lost him. Other times, it feels like a lifetime ago. This is... difficult for me. I can’t – I can’t call you Stark. I already look at you and all I see is Howard.

“I am not my father,” he snarls, and hates himself for the way the Captain recoils. Clearly Howard the man was different from Howard the father, different and warmer and _good_ , and he tries to ignore the acidic burn of jealously when he realizes that his father _did_ care, just not about him – _pity_ , his father’s voice hisses from the back of his mind. _Pitiful_. “Here,” he offers, and it’s all he can to keep from screaming, to keep from clawing at his skin again, to keep from peeling off the face that looks so much like a ghost. “I’ll tell you what I told Steve: I’m Tony, okay? Not Howard Stark’s son, not the former king... Just Tony.” He offers his hand, which noticeably tremors only once. “I’m Tony.”

The Captain hesitates, face guarded, but he finally claps his mailed glove against Tony’s palm in an uncomfortable handshake. “Bucky,” he offers in response. “Nice to meet you.”

* * *

Hours pass. Years. Seconds. Days. Time passes, or it doesn’t – they can’t tell.

They walk through a door – there is a room, hollow and dark. Another door – there is fire and burning and monsters and magic. They fight and they run and they do not tire until—

They walk through a door. It is another day, another hour, seconds later. Tony presses balled fists into his eyes, vision and thoughts swimming and he can’t tell anymore if he’s even still standing, let alone cognizant of their surroundings. The Captain tires. They fight mages – Images? Ghosts? – who are both real and not. Tony lets one score a minor hit, just to test, and his skin goes hot and numb and sharp with pain, quick like a knife, only the site remains unblemished after the fact. He can still feel the throbbing low in his bones.

They walk up stairs – endless stairs, days and weeks and hours – until they reach the top and push open the door to find only minutes have passed, one floor up one floor down.

Tony hates the Fade.

The demon waits at the top of the tower, languid and lithe; its siren song whispers through the room and curls around their ankles like a cat. Tony can smell the fire and iron of a forge, the cozy darkness of the mines, but is otherwise clear-headed. The Captain hesitates in the doorway, eyes focused on the wall – or beyond, to something far away – but the Fade shifts and the stones shimmer and he is present again. It hasn’t noticed them yet, the demon. There’s a man kneeling before it, grey-skinned and vacant, that the demon tenderly strokes with long claws and soft murmurs. “How do we kill a desire demon?” the Captain asks too quietly, right against the curve of Tony’s ear but he still strains to catch the sounds.

“I have no idea,” he whispers back, placing the words against the Captain skull. “It’s not usually a thing that happens. Mostly they,” and he wiggles his fingers in the air, this time lewdly, “and you’re under their thrall. I once read something that told the story of a pure-hearted knight stabbing one through with his noble blade, but I’m also pretty sure it was just some poorly written sex thing.”

The Captain cuffs him lightly with the edge of the shield. “Its magic doesn’t appear to be affecting us,” but it’s a lie – it is. Tony can feel it, warm and sweet, sliding soft around his vision and silky against his skin. The phantom burn from the mage’s attack no longer aches, and he feels good. Content. Like the end a good meal and a good drink and a good day, like the end of a good sleep. Just... _good_. But it’s hesitant, barely there, like maybe even under spell he doesn’t quite remember how to feel that way, and he has to chase down even the smallest bit of it past the still strange beat of his heart and the still dull throb of his head. “Maybe it’s vulnerable to physical attacks?”

“Is... is that a sex thing?” The Captain cuffs him again, harder this time, but grins crookedly. “The classic plan of ‘run up and punch it in the face.’ Always a favorite.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of ‘sneak up and stab it through the heart,’ but if you think your way is better then by all means,” he gestures, “by my guest. You’re an idiot.” When Tony doesn’t move he gestures again, this time with a crudely spiked short sword presented handle first. It seems only slightly more tangible than the rest of the Fade, but there’s a heft and weight to it that there isn’t to the furniture or the books on the shelves – there were Darkspawn, he remembers, days and weeks and months ago, somewhere down the stairs.

He doesn’t take it. “I don’t... I don’t sword.” It’s not _exactly_ a lie – he knows how to use it, studied the techniques as a child and has spent enough years in the forges to have the strength for, it’s more that he just... doesn’t. He’s never been a fighter, at least not before the end of the world. “You were an assassin in a past life,” he tries. “Shouldn’t stabbing through the heart be _your_ thing?”

Smiling that crooked, sarcastic smile, he knocks the pommel against Tony’s hand. “You _are_ a mage in your _current_ life. That makes magic and demons _your_ thing.”

“You’re such an asshole,” he growls, but fondly, and hefts the sword experimentally. It’s not terribly heavy, nor terribly large, and when he closes his grip too tightly around it the edges smudge a bit alarmingly. Still, he can hold it and move it and, he frowns when he realizes just how _close_ he’ll have to get for the plan to work, stab with it. “I liked the quiet and judgmental Cap better, whatever happened to him?”

The Captain’s not looking at him, possibly not even paying attention to him – he stares forward at the room’s exits and obstacles, mapping them with tactician’s practice, before eventually responding in a casual voice that sounds completely forced. “Do you know how much it takes to break through the veil long enough to talk, let alone to take control of a person and fight a damn war?” And no, he doesn’t, but he can imagine. He hates the taste of pity at the back of his throat, of guilt and shame that he’d never even considered it – hates it as much as the Captain hates admitting the weakness, if the set to his jaw means anything.

He shoves the Captain with his shoulder. “Go be distracting. I’ve got a demon to stab.”

Tony hugs the wall as best he can, creeping with whatever stealth he can manage t a point behind the demon, while the Captain approaches head on; he’s within ten feet of it when it lets out a low hiss and makes eye contact. He freezes. “The noble soldier,” it coos to him, voice warm and welcoming, “home from the war. Come,” it beckons him with a single hand run down the swell of its breast, and the Captain takes a small step forward. “Come.” The husk of what was once a man falls to the floor beside it, forgotten, as the Captain takes a second reluctant step – Tony risks a glance around the floating furniture of the Fade to see that his eyes are vacant and white, and he mutters a few curses. When the Captain is finally an arm’s length away from the demon Tony moves, aiming between the shoulder blades and thrusting with all the strength he can muster – he closes his eyes and his ears to the sound it makes, the anguished shriek that is at once too human and anything but, ignores the chill of ichor on his hands.

And then, as suddenly as it began, it is over.

Nodding his approval, the Captain offers a square of cloth – cut from the dead Templar’s cloak, Tony pretends not to notice – to clean his hands with. “Good stabbing.”

“Good distracting,” he responds, and tosses the soiled fabric to the stones as the purple glow of a portal materializes before them. “Ready for round two?”

The Captain waves him forward with a casual gesture and a mocking bow. “After you.”

* * *

The portal deposits them, staggering and lost, into a darkened basement that smells of damp and fear – Tony doesn’t need to look around to know whose Fade dream this is. “Natasha?” he calls, the sounds not bouncing like he thought they would but hanging, thick and grey, filling the space like a fog. He _hates_ the Fade. “Tash?”

The Captain stands frozen beside him, face looking vulnerable and young again; he holds his arm, the one opposite the shield, the metal and magic one, tense against his chest as though it’s broken. Tony knows about the injury from the stories, but he’s never known what it means. “I know where we are,” he whispers, and if Tony’s words had hung in the air like smoke the Captain’s fall to the floor like stones. “She always called it ‘the Red Room.’”

He picks up on the past tense with curiosity. “You knew Natasha?”

The crooked smile sets into a firm, straight line. “It was a previous life,” and his voice has just the barest hint of regret that Tony knows enough to know not to press.

Fade dream or not, they settle into their usual battle formation – the Captain taking point and Tony watching his back – and tiptoe around the corner. There isn’t much to sneak up on, because they turn the edge and they’re suddenly there, front and center – Tony had suspected as much but it’s another thing entirely to _see_ it. The room is set up like a torture chamber, heavy wooden table surrounded by walls of tools, and the girl tied down with thick straps of leather can’t be more than twelve years old. He doesn’t recognize her until he sees her hair: dark red, unnaturally red. Red as the rest of her. “Tasha?”

Phantoms from her past move with cruel efficiency around the table, cutting and tearing and she does not cry out. Does not break. He calls her name a second time and she responds in what must be Orlaisan – he doesn’t speak it. One of the phantoms does _something_ against her arm and her entire body arches, caught by the straps against the table, mouth open and eyes wide but she does not scream. “I’m sorry,” she whispers instead.

“Nat,” his voice is raw, aching like the rest of him, and he has to try the word a few times before anything manages to come out; it hurts to speak down here, like the memory is so sharp and painful that it’s catching him in it as well. “Nat, _lethallan_ , you need to get up. This – this isn’t real.” It is though. Maybe not now but a lifetime ago, forged from memories rather than magic, and he feels helpless fury settle in his bones for the life she escaped. Green eyes, large and frightened, lock on to his. “You’re dreaming. You need to wake up.” She murmurs something again, something he can’t understand but there’s a question to it, and Tony glances back to where the Captain lingers in the doorway. “Cap,” he whispers, “why don’t you scoot back into the hallway a bit. You’re ruining the whole ‘it’s only a dream’ idea with your whole ‘having actually been there’ thing.” He hadn’t needed to ask. The expression on the Captain’s face had been obvious.

“Yeah,” the Captain whispers back, not moving. “Yeah.”

“Bucky, go wait by the portal.” He moves at the sound of his name, startled, but responds more easily to the command in Tony’s voice than he had to the suggestion. “I got this.” The phantoms solidify as he exits, shouldering Tony out of their way as one reaches for a brand from the fire, sizzling red hot and cruelly hooked and— “Natasha!” The entire room blinks out, only for a second, and he takes the advantage to release the straps binding her down. “ _Halam_ , Nat, _ir abelas_ – we have to go. We have to find Steve and Bruce – remember them? – and then get the hell out of here because I _hate_ the Fade, really, I do, and we have to get back to Thor and Clint and save the damn world, and I can’t do any of this without you, _please_.”

“Tony?” the child asks in Natasha’s voice, sounding sleepy and soft. “Where – where am I?”

He doesn’t have the words to tell her. “You’re dreaming.”

She ages ten years as she stands from the table, still stained red with bloody memories but solid now. Real. “I thought I was back there.” She does not waver on her feet but it’s a near thing, and Tony ignores every survival instinct that screams at him not to, reaches out – slowly, so slowly, right in her field of vision so she doesn’t startle to strangle him – to draw her into a tight hug.

“This is going to be one of those things we don’t talk about,” he promises against her hair, and her shoulders shake as the room around them vanishes. They’re on a craggy outcrop now, completely isolated, with the strangeness of the Fade surrounding them like an ocean. The Captain stands by the portal, greeting their return with something in Orlaisan, but before Natasha can reply her form goes see-through and smudged at the edges.

“Tony?” Her voice is scared again but she turns to him, trusting. “What’s—”

She vanishes.

* * *

They walk through a door.

There is a maze, a labyrinth of burning flames that spark and catch. Another door – there is shadow and darkness and creatures and confusion, and they run and fight and do not stop until they walk through a door.

They walk through a door and it is another world, another time, seconds later. Tony begins to wonder if they even found Natasha at all or if it was all some trick of the Fade, some dream of his own, but the Captain is still pale and shaken and he still holds him arm like it hurts him, and Tony knows it was real. They fight Darkspawn who are not real, until they are – the drumming thrums in his bones, deep and hollow, which he knows now is a Warden sense of danger, but they burn with an impossible fire that does not spread.

They turn a corner and the demon waits in a hollow space, wide and open like an arena. This one is fire of another kind, anger and violence instead of passion and warmth, and it lunges for them before they’re even aware of its presence. “I hate ogres!” Tony yells, throwing up a warding spell as the Captain throws him to the side. The beast’s charge hits the shield dead on, sending the Captain back into the wall but sparing him the jagged horns.

The Captain recovers, color returned to his face, and catches a sharp blow against the beast’s neck that looks to do little more than irritate it. “They’re apparently not fond of you, either!” In the space of time it takes for the ogre to blink away the hit and the shield to return to his arm, the Captain has a hand around Tony’s elbow and hauls him across the room. “Hug the wall,” he repeats his words from their first day together.

“And keep moving,” Tony finishes, shoving the Captain in the opposite direction as the ogre lets loose with another roar. He and the Captain take off at a sprint, tight against the wall to discourage the creature from charging, but after a precious moment’s hesitation it lumbers along in chase of the Captain. “Hey Cap!” he calls across the empty space, ignoring the bones of less resourceful men beneath his feet save for when they might trip him. “I have an idea!”

Dodging a blow from the ogre’s heavy fists, the Captain responds first with short jabs to the soft places of the creature’s elbows and neck before continuing to run – he’s faster than Tony and far more agile, but the ogre is faster still. “I’m open to suggestions!” he yells back, cursing over another toss of the shield to slow the ogre’s pursuit.

Tony pulls to a stop, out of breath in a way he knows he shouldn’t be, and focuses his attention as best he can away from the chasing beast. He turns inward, to the well of lyrium now nothing but a spark, and traces the path the others take; when the tingling in his hands passes into painful, he grins. “Like with the skeletons! Aim for the face!” He doesn’t wait for an acknowledgment, trusting the rapport they’ve built instead, as he releases the energy built up; the pressure breaks with a recoil that sends him to his knees, and sends a ball of blue lightning flying toward the Captain like a missile. It hits the shield with a noise like a crash of thunder before reflecting back into the ogre’s face – because of course the Captain had understood him, of course, and as always the shield is angled perfectly on the mark.

The ogre drops to the floor, smelling of fire and cooked flesh, and does not move again. Tony and the Captain share a tired smile, catching their breath against the halfway-there walls of the Fade, and wait for the purple glow of the portal.

* * *

The portal releases them on a craggy outcrop nearly identical to the one where they lost and found Natasha; Tony _hates_ the Fade. It is bare save for Bruce seated cross-legged at its center, and he appears to be meditating – he glances up at their arrival, lips quirking in a small smile, before continuing his breathing exercises. Tony and the Captain share a look of warning, wary of what they might encounter here, especially given the Hulk, before approaching carefully. “Hey Bruce.”

Bruce waves. “Hey Tony.”

Relief hits at the sign of recognition, leaving his legs limp and tired, and he offers a hand that does not shake to the other mage. “You good, buddy?”

He accepts the help and pulls himself to his feet, brushing dust from his trousers – it is wispy, immaterial, and fades into nothing long before it hits the ground. “I hate the Fade.” His eyes are still brown.

“Me too. I cannot stress enough how much I hate this place.”

Bruce acknowledges the Captain’s presence without question, merely offering a second small wave that is shyly returned; it’s quieter here than the rest of the Fade. Calm. “You find the other yet?” he asks them after a moment, and Tony hides a flinch.

“We found Natasha,” the Captain answers, arm held tense and awkward with the same memories, “but she disappeared.”

“We’re hoping that means she woke up,” Tony is quick, too quick, to add. Bruce gets that thoughtful look on his face, smooth and serene and Tony knows the quiet masks a brain in hyperactivity – this is why he had hoped to find the other mage first, this soft brilliance. This soothing influence. Tony feels the _thump thump_ press of the Fade against him recede and he can finally, _finally_ think past the ache in his skull and— “If Natasha had woken up, she would have killed the demon.”

The Captain taps his fingers in impatient irritation against the shield; the metal _tings_ against his nails, vibrating hollowly against his arm. “So where is she?”

Bruce smile again, quiet and calm. “I’ll let you know when I get there.”

He vanishes.

* * *

They walk through a door.

There is a ruin, ancient and alien, that stretches above and below them into infinity. Another door – there is a hall, vast and endless, heavy with spirits and time and they run and run and run and they do not reach the other end. Stone soldiers stare down at them, silent and cold, and there is no echo of sound at all until they hear screaming. Shimmering Templars, spirits or dreams, fight formless shadows that sharpen into nightmares. They reach out with bony hands, faces empty and calm, and the Captain grabs Tony’s wrist in a painful grip until his form is hard and _real_. “Don’t let them touch you,” he orders, and drags the mage away. “Just run.” They run and run and run and they do not tire, and the world shimmers and shifts around them.

They turn a corner and the path dead ends; before they can gather their bearings enough to try again the shade emerges from the floor, fire and fury, and launches itself immediately for Tony’s magic – it scores a blow, knocking him backwards into the Captain, and the pain is hot and cold and numb all at once but his skin remains unblemished. Tony sets his teeth against the burning in his nerves and sends back an attack of his own, blue lightning bowling the creature back end over end. “Just hit it as hard as you can,” he tells the Captain when he can breath again, “and don’t stop until I tell you.”

Tony tires. The shades seek out magic and seep it dry, leaving him slow and grey and he can’t fight back. Not against these. The Captain steals him a sword, lightweight and vaporous, that feels like silk in his hands but leaves the creatures moaning and howling in pain.

They turn a corner and come face to face with a nightmare, twelve feet tall and hooded, wafting black robes and a skeletal hands that reaches, _reaches_ but they are just too far away. The walls are shrinking inwards now, smaller and smaller, and Tony doesn’t think, doesn’t care about the consequences – he shouts a word in an ancient tongue that he’s not even sure will work in the Fade, a half-forgotten banishing spell that’s more dangerous than it is useful. There’s a hollow popping noise of the room sealing itself in a vacuum, and then nothing.

Then there is only the purple glow of the portal.

* * *

The portal releases them, panting and pained, into a small garden that feels warm and welcoming in a way it shouldn’t, especially not where they are – the sound of laughter bubbles from the open windows of the house, and the Captain grabs Tony’s shoulder in warning. “Steve,” he begins, searching for words, “His family – he lost them all in one of the first Darkspawn attacks. Getting him to leave them again, it won’t—”

“Got it,” Tony says harshly, too harshly, because how can he ask anyone – a _friend_ – to go through something like that a second time? He can’t. He has to. With legs heavy and slow and with the heart in his chest a crushing weight, he walks to the house and he knocks on the door.

A young woman answers. She’s – well, she’s absolutely gorgeous, all dark hair and ruby lips, and the laughter dies in her throat when she opens the door to a road-worn stranger. “Hello,” she greets cautiously, voice husky and cool, and Tony wraps a smile around his bone-deep exhaustion and hopes, _prays_ , for charming.

“Hi. I’m – is Steve home?”

She does not smile back, face stony and stern, and she reminds him of Natasha in a simpler, softer way – he misses Natasha. It’s been hours-days-weeks-a lifetime without her quiet, confident presence at his shoulder, and he’s not sure exactly when that became a constant in his life, only that now things seem so much more unbalanced without it. “That depends entirely,” she leans in the half open doorway, blocking entrance to the house. “And who are you, exactly?”

Steve appears at her side, drawn by the voices, and he looks bright and boyish in a way that clenches the foreign muscle beating in Tony’s chest. He’s never seen Steve at a time when he wasn’t stumbling beneath the weight of the world on his shoulders, and he’s definitely never seen him so blissfully _happy_ before – he can’t ask Steve to sacrifice this. “Peg, this is Tony – the one I was telling you about. Tony, this is Peggy.”

Her angular face sharpens further, eyes narrow and calculating, and she looks Tony up and down once, twice, before making her decision. “A pleasure to meet you,” she says as she offers her hand, but her voice says the opposite; when Tony meets her grip her nails feel like claws against his wrist, five points of pain that have him drawing away too quickly, but the disdainful smile she wears is entirely human. “Steve, darling,” she turns on him sweetly, blood red lips tugged into a soft grin and blood red nails tapping soft against his chest, “dinner will be ready in just a few minutes. Will your... friend,” she glances him up and down one more time, over her shoulder, and Tony wishes he had never knocked, “be staying?”

Unaware of the tenuous attitudes between them, Steve turns the same smile from Peggy to Tony and back again. “What do you say? You want to stay for dinner?” Peggy trails her nails across his shirt as she leaves, but doesn’t spare Tony a second glance. It’s more than obvious his presence is unwelcome. “You have to meet everyone else,” he sounds excited. _Alive_. “Michael and Sharon and Thomas.”

Tony aims for a smile that he strongly suspects he misses. “That sounds great... but listen. Steve. I can’t – I can’t stay.”

He frowns and it’s like its own Fade delusion, the way Tony can feel the disappointment clawing at his ankles. “But you just got here.”

“I – _we_ can’t stay,” he tries again slowly, so slowly, in stops and starts because how can he do this – how can he ask Steve to lose everything a second time over? “We have to get back to the others.” The frown deepens. “You remember, right? Clint and Tasha and Bruce and Thor? We have to get back to help them, to stop the Blight.”

Peggy reappears at his side again, hand against his chest to block him from leaving, like she’s materialized from the air itself. “I think you should go,” she tells Tony in a voice gone hard and sharp. “I’ve only just got him calmed down after that _awful_ dream of his, and you come here to try and make it worse?”

“Peggy?” Steve’s voice sounds lonely and lost and so, so young.

“Hush, darling.” She moves around him as she coos, voice soothing, but something shifts in Tony’s vision and the room is gone, the beautiful Peggy is gone, and the desire demon runs its talons in bloody furrows down Steve’s chest. Steve must not be able to see it, because he follows her path with his gaze imploringly. “Hush now, it was all just a dream.” Two children, no more than ten years old and a matched set of big blue eyes and bright blond hair and brilliant smiles, appear from nowhere at all to clasp at Steve’s hands. They pull him backwards with their voices an overlapping litany of ‘come play with us come on dinner’s ready we love you we love you we love you,’ and the responding grimace on Steve’s face is absolutely gutted.

“I don’t,” he searches for answers in their gazes, Tony’s to Peggy’s to the children’s, lingering longest on them with a sad, disbelieving expression before tearing his attention back to Tony. “I don’t understand.”

Tony bites the inside of his cheek raw and bloody, praying to any spirit listening that he could be taken back to a place where instead of a hammering heartbeat and a chest clenched tight in anguish there was just metal and diamond and magic – somewhere along losing his heart and surviving, he’s learned having one to be far more painful. “Steve.” He doesn’t recognize his own voice anymore. “I’m sorry, this – they aren’t – this is a dream. It isn’t real, Steve.” _Not anymore_ , he can’t bring himself to say.

The fingernails against his chest pinch tighter, and the talons dig deeper, and Peggy’s once smoky tones are closer to growls. “Don’t listen to him, darling. Of course we’re real – we’re your family.” She sounds sincere and convincing, and the children look up at him adoringly, and—

“Steve.” This time his voice is firm; Steve seems to jolt awake at the sound, locking eyes with him. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes.”

The lack of hesitation and complete conviction of the answer startles him silent, sending twinges of panic down his spine and matching tremors to the clenching in his chest and he _does not_ have time for this, not now. Not ever, if he can help it. “We need to leave.”

“Okay.” Steve nods his head and releases the children, turning his back on Peggy with a just slightly too slow motion; his eyes are shuttered, lips tight and jaw clenched, but he nods a second time when he stands in front of Tony. “Okay.”

“ ** _NO_**!” The illusion comes crashing down around them, the once-welcoming home now a burnt out husk and the children – _the children_. Peggy also falls away, slipped off like a dress, as the desire demon lunges forward with a low growl in its throat and blood-red talons outstretched. “He is _mine_ ,” it snarls. Steve stands frozen at the change, face playing out an entire conversation of sorrow and shock and fear and despair, and his mouth opens and closes in a whispered prayer – he’s not looking at the demon, or at Tony. Instead he fixates on the remains of a home and the family that once lived there, broken beyond recognition.

Tony can’t look away from the way that Steve looks at the children like he wishes it were him. Instead, he clenches his fist and feels the tingle of lyrium, muted and near to depletion, in his fingertips building to a dull ache; the pain in his head roars up to match it, beating the hammering tempo of his heart against the inside of his skull until he thinks he might pass out. When the demon reaches him, shrieks of anger loud in his ears and screeching cries of ‘he is mine _he is **mine**_ ,’ he reaches out and catches it around the throat. The last reserves of his magic burn her flesh with a sickening flash of blue and the purple glow of a portal.

“Not anymore.”

* * *

They walk through a door.

VI.

For the third time in too recent memory, he claws awake from dreams of danger and demons – this time to silence. It’s habit by now, the way his first instinct is to reach for his chest, and he doesn’t know if it’s dread or relief that leaves his arms heavy and his legs limp at the feel of smooth diamond and the warm-cold hum of lyrium beneath his ribs. His vision and his brain still feel fuzzy and slow, but he gradually blinks both into clarity; sitting up is a struggle and a symphony of groaning as the phantom injuries of the Fade become remarkably less phantom. The sudden warmth of a hand at his shoulder has him tensing, sore and sleepy but battle-ready all the same, but he relaxes at Bruce’s welcome, familiar voice by his ear.

“Seriously,” he says in a voice that sounds as wrung out and relieved as Tony feels. “I _hate_ the Fade.” He can’t help it – he laughs.

Steve is also slow to pull to his feet, the shield dangling limp and heavy in his grip, but he passes his eyes from one to the other to the next. “Are we all here?” The new shadows on his face make him look older, weary, and Tony knows it’s the memory of his family finally caught up to him – his _real_ family, not the constructs of the demon’s dream. “Is everyone okay?”

Natasha doesn’t speak, only nods her head slowly, silently, and Tony’s reaching out for her before he can second guess the motion – she grips at his hand like she’s going to break it, like she might break if she lets go. “You’re safe, _lethallan_ ,” he whispers, and the vise-like grip she has on him loosens to something closer to normal before she squeezes it in acknowledgement. The other hand clutches the temporarily useless opal at her belt until it cuts through the flesh of her palm, and he curses the wards that keep them from communicating with those left behind. “I promise you, Nat. We’ll get you back to him.” She nods again, this time more strongly, and when she straightens she is as graceful and controlled as always.

“Let’s go.”

* * *

The last stretch of the Tower is unnervingly silent, devoid of mages and monsters and anything at all beyond memories and blood on the stones, and when they reach the final set of stairs Steve calls a halt, turning to them with hushed tones. “After – after everything that’s happened to us,” and his shoulders tighten and Natasha shrinks and Tony feels the air in his lungs turn to ash because this has happened to them twice over now and he can’t help feeling that it’s somehow his fault – _Pathetic_ , the voice in his head says, only this time it’s not Stane’s or his father’s, but his own. _You’re pathetic_. – “I honestly have no idea what we might find up there,” Steve continues, and Tony forces himself back to the present with fingernails dug into his thigh. “Just... just stick together, okay?”

They take a single moment to acknowledge the others with them, a quiet not-yet-goodbye, and then Natasha draws a series of blades in preparation. Bruce hands his glasses off to Tony, who secures them into the inner pocket of his vest, and then passes along the final two bottles of lyrium they’ve brought. Tony chokes them down, the pain in his skull lessening, and then Steve opens the door.

Rickety stairs lead to a circular room, barely more than fifteen feet in diameter, that sits at the peak of the Tower; there’s a labyrinth pattern laid into the bricks of the floor, alternating circles of red and white that look eerily alike to the pattern of Steve’s shield. At the very center of the innermost white circle, four men kneel arranged at the cardinal points – one is old and three are young, and they face inward with their foreheads bowed together. Tony can’t see what they’ve gathered around, but he can hear their rhythmic chanting and, whatever it is, it can’t be good because they’re speaking Neromenian. Beside him he hears Bruce mutter a string of curses that ends only ‘these idiots’ and he can’t help but agree – Neromenian is the language of blood magic, of demonic summonings, and suddenly their banishment to the Fade makes infinite more sense.

Ignoring their wordless conversation regarding things he can’t understand, Steve breaks the stillness by throwing a loose chunk of mortar at the nearest chanting mage. It doesn’t hit him, landing precisely on the stones in front of him instead, but the sudden noise and motion are enough to have them falling silent and turning to face them in unison. “It is too late,” the oldest of the group tells them in a voice gone brittle with hysteria. “It has begun.”

“Yeah,” Tony moves into the room to try and examine whatever ritual they’re completing; he gets as far as chalk outlines and black hoods before they move to cut him off. “Yeah, I can see that. So what exactly is it that ‘has begun?’” The lightning crackles at his fingertips when he approaches the white circle again, the same way it had with the wards at the gate, and he takes a large step backwards without any urging.

The elder mage’s face cracks into a feral grin – Tony has the presence to command a room in any regard, doubly so in a magical setting, and he strolls the outer edge of the room with the undivided attention of all four men pulled to him. “Our **_liberation_** ,” the man crows.

The word has Tony freezing in his tracks, letting out a pained groan that matches the noise Bruce releases in similar response, both of them running the full spectrum of anger-disbelief-frustration-acceptance in a single gesture. “Of course,” Tony mutters, his now purposeful strides bringing him full circle back to the Wardens. “ _Of fucking course_ they’re libertasians, of course. This all makes _so much_ sense now—”

His tirade is overlapped by Bruce’s, though while Tony seems to speak to no one but himself Bruce addresses the mages directly. “You’re _idiots_ , you know that? You’re all such fucking _idiots_ – Tony, did you hear them? _They’re idiots_ —”

The mages bristle at their words, drawing together in solidarity before Steve holds up a hand to silence everyone – improbably, they all obey. “What does he mean?” The no-nonsense voice of the Captain has Tony falling silent in a moment of guilt when he remembers the words from the Fade – _do you know how much it takes?_ – colored by a newfound surge of camaraderie he feels for the spirit. Remembering the days weeks months they spent together, it’s easy to switch from explosion to explanation.

“Libertasians,” he situates Bruce at his back, keeping an eye on the mages, so he can more easily focus on Natasha and the Captain, “are mages who want, as the name implies, liberty. They believe that the mages should be self-governed, out from under the rule of the Templars.” He gestures at himself and then Bruce, shrugging helplessly. “Bruce and I are libertasians. I’m assuming Thor is as well, after that spectacular moment he shared with Creeper the Gatekeeper. It’s not exactly a radical idea, and they’re not exactly radical people.”

“But these idiots,” the contempt in Bruce’s voice is palpable. “I’m sorry, I just... you are _spectacularly_ stupid, you know that?”

One of the three younger mages kicks his way to his feet, breaking the circle to confront Bruce’s disdain head on. “We’re fighting for our freedom!” he recites with the impassioned vitality of youth. “From the oppressive rule of the Templars!”

“You’re showing them that you don’t need keepers?” Bruce asks him dryly.

“Yes! That we can govern ourselves!”

“That you’re to be trusted, without a force to check your powers?”

The mage doesn’t appear to be as stupid as Bruce originally pegged him to be, because his confrontational energy dies down and his face falls into confusion as the questions continue. “We don’t need the Templars to treat us like property of the realm,” he spits out.

Bruce makes a noise like he agrees, posture loose and relaxed – he’d been a teacher, Tony remembers then, before the accident. “And you thought that the best way to show the world that the mages were ready to be set free was to, what, unleash your powers on the Tower and start a massacre?”

A third of the mages, this one even younger – he’s probably no more than thirteen, still a child, and his chapped lips quiver when he faces them – stands beside the other. “Massacre?”

Bruce crouches down, making himself as unthreatening as he can, and softens his face. “The demons you summoned, the abominations you created... they’ve killed almost everyone in the Tower.” The boy chokes back a noise and promptly bursts into tears, hands reaching out blindly to clutch at the first piece of stability he can reach – his hands tangle in the hem of the older boy’s robes, and in the fingers Bruce presses against his cheek. The last young mage sits dumbly on the ground, staring at the items for their ritual laid out before him in horror, and the elder mage cackles again.

“Those who do not stand with us stand for our enslavement.”

“Listen to me,” Bruce ignores the older man to focus on the younger ones, the same way he had back in Redcliffe with the boy from the village – the way that is calm and quiet and so easy to forget that Bruce is ever anything but. “I understand, I do. I grew up in the Circle, I know what it’s like. And I also experimented with the limits of magic, like you are now. Trust me when I say that it’s not the way. This,” he turns the boy’s head to the room, landing and lingering on the elder mage who is all but lost to insanity, “is not the way. Let me guess: you’re trying to exchange service for the power of the demon, yeah? You think that strength, that extra power, will help you overthrow the Templars?” The boy’s head hangs in shame. “You can’t control it. It will _rip you apart_ and turn you into a monster. _Trust me_.”

Natasha, silent since they first entered the room, takes the two steps that bring her to their side, and drops to her knees beside Bruce. “You’re not a monster,” she tells him softly. It’s so far from even just weeks ago, from that day at the inn when he first joined them and she wouldn’t let her hand off her weapons, and small tendrils of warmth loosen the too-tight feelings in Tony’s chest. “And neither is the Hulk.”

“You can end this,” the Captain promises. He gestures to the door they entered, voice steady and sure and even Tony believes him, believes wholeheartedly that everything will be okay. “We can walk out this door right now, this will all be over. No one else has to get hurt.”

The youngest boy, hands still clasped around the fabric of Bruce’s sleeves, looks up to his friends with wet, tearful eyes. “Devin, let’s just go,” he whispers. The other boy nods his head in adamant agreement.

“You are weak!” the elder mage screams, his voice heavy with something not entirely his own – he sounds ancient and terrible, sounds like the syrupy not-quite-real of the Fade and the strangled not-quite-right of human madness, and when he waves hands at the two mages in front of Bruce they are laced with fire. It’s only Natasha’s lightning fast reflexes and her general proximity, grabbing Bruce around the chest and _pulling_ with all her body weight behind the motion, that has the three of them out of range of the fireball that streaks through the center of the room. Tony yelps as they tumble backwards into him, the young mage still tangled in Bruce’s limbs letting out a wail as his friends are caught in the heart of the inferno. “You are weak,” the mage repeats, but it’s not his voice anymore. “And you are no longer useful to me.”

He sheds his robes and he staggers to the center of the circle, standing naked and writhing as the fire dies out. The chalk marking from the floor bleed up his legs, scrawling deep fissures of blood as the lines and letters slice themselves into his flesh; he hardly seems to feel it. They cut deeper, down to the bone, and he begins to shed his skin as easily as he had his clothing, sloughing it off in thick clumps that fall to the floor with a sickening noise – Tony pulls Bruce to his feet. “I’ll run defense on this one,” he says hurriedly, and Bruce pats his arm in agreement.

The Captain looks at them both, eyes wide. “What’s—”

His question is cut off by a deafening roar, and the soggy mass that was once a mage ripples – he explodes from the inside out, bones protruding and lengthening, hardening over his skin into a craggy carapace. He straightens his spine and he stands five eight ten feet tall, eyes like fire and chalk markings burning his flesh into brilliant red patterns. “Demon,” Tony explains, already in motion – he ducks beneath the Captain’s arm and across the scorched path of the floor, scooping up a stick of chalk as he passes the ritual site.

The demon roars. “None shall oppose me!” He turns on the last remaining young mage, cowering against the wall near the door and alternating between a stunned silence and deep, heaving sobs; the reds of the markings burn with energy as he approaches. “You are weak,” he repeats, voice colored rough from anger and pride – a Pride Demon, Tony realizes then, and tries to recall what the books say about them. There’s nothing, this isn’t his specialty, and he hopes that like the ogre they can just hit it until it’s defeated. “And you have served your purpose, miserable as it may be.” Hands reach out for him, what used to be fingers and flesh now nothing but claws and fire and—

The Hulk’s blow catches the demon off guard, staggering him to the side. As he turns, confusion turning swiftly to anger with the vicious motivator of wounded pride, the Hulk strikes again – this time the blow catches him square on, right in the face, and it knocks him back another three paces. This time, it’s the Hulk that roars. “ _You_ are weak,” he snarls, and the demon’s eyes spark with fury (Later, when they stand around the scorched remains, Tony turns to Bruce with an incredulous stare and offers his first. “You were totally shit talking that demon,” he crows as Bruce delicately bumps his own fist against Tony’s. “I just wanted you to slap him around for me, but that was _so much better_.”).

Tony takes over care of the young mage during the distraction, tugging him out of direct combat and away from the staircase; when he stops he immediately begins chalking a series of symbols in a half circle on the floor around them, talking as he works. “Listen, kid... I’m not saying this was a good idea. This was probably the worst idea anyone has ever had, _ever_ , and coming from me that actually – that actually means a lot. But I am saying that I get why you did it, and maybe I would have done something similar,” the symbols are a mix of looping sigils and jagged runes, three consecutive rows. “Only less stupid. _So much less stupid_. So not similar at all, in fact, but that’s not the point.” When he lays the final mark the crescent glows with the same lyrium blue as his chest. “The point is, right now I need you to snap the hell out of it and help me out.”

The young mage doesn’t react – both his focus and Tony’s are drawn away by the sound of a crash and a bellow as the demon lands a shattering blow against the Hulk. It sends him flying into Natasha, the two hitting the far wall with a sharp cry and a sickening snap that leaves Natasha favoring one leg when she stands; the Hulk is slower to follow, shaking his head against a possible concussion.

Using the distraction the Captain strikes, a sturdy blow from his shield catching the demon in the back of the skull. There’s a hum and a sizzle as the spells on the shield collide with the marking etched into the demon’s skin, but true to their maker the wards worked into the metal hold firm. The demon whirls on him next, advancing before the shield can finish its arc back to the Captain’s hand, and the hesitation allows Natasha time to drive a knife into one of the runes on the back of the demon’s leg, and the red turns a dark color, nearly black, when the demon lets out a second roar of pain.

The three continue their tag-team attacks, working seamlessly to juggle the demon between them without any single one getting in his notice or his reach for too long, and Tony’s not sure how long they can last like this – the demon, aside from the leg that is still that sickly dark color, seems both tireless and painless as the Wardens deliver blow after blow. The few he lands in return are devastating.

“Okay,” a small voice says. Tony’s all but forgotten the young mage until he pushes himself up from the floor, wiping his face clean on the sleeve of his robe – a futile effort, as his voice breaks as soon as he speaks and the tears continue to flow. “I want to help, I – I want to set things right.”

An unexpected uppercut to the jaw lands the Hulk only feet from them, groaning softly, but he glances at the script on the floor and grunts a quick ‘Adralla?’ in their direction, pulling himself tiredly up when Tony nods. “The Litany of Adralla,” Tony watches the demon to gauge their timing. He winces when the demon catches the Captain’s arm on a downswing, the plated wrist winning the battle against human bone, and the Captain cradles it uselessly against his chest. It’s his shield arm. “You know it, right?”

The young mage nods his head, hair flopping across his sweaty forehead. “Yeah, of course. What—”

“Count of three,” Tony explains sharply, because there simply is not enough time for this. He raises his voice then, shouting to be heard above the sounds of exhaustion and a battle quickly turning against their favor. “Bruce, now! Also, _three_!”

He begins the recitation, the young mage stumbling over the beginning from surprise but gaining strength in the familiar words. The symbols Tony had chalked into the stone begin to glow, brighter and brighter and the burning energy in his bones grows lighter and fainter – and speaking of, he feels like he might – as the demon turns on them viciously. The Hulk melts away as easily as he’d appeared and Bruce grabs Natasha around the waist (it is a testament to how far they’ve come, that she does not react beyond allowing him) to move her quickly, far more quickly then she would be able with her leg, to a side of the room. Seeing this, the Captain echoes the move to the opposite wall.

Milliseconds. That’s the window of time Tony’s had to plan to.

The demon reaches them, mouth gaping and claws outstretched – his eyes are like fiery embers, any remaining humanity burning alive within their depths – and the final word of the spell finishes just as he attempts to cross the line of sigils; he screams. There’s a ripple in the floor like liquid silver that bursts like a tidal wave from the half-circle of chalk markings, slow at first and low to the ground, but it gains side and speed quickly as it crosses the room. It washes harmlessly against the skin of the Wardens and the made, tingling softly, but catches the demon in its current and carries him along before crashing him against the far wall with a shower of sparks. Then the light dies down, and there is silence.

The demon, or what remains, is a few bits of bone scorched to the stones of the floor.

In an instant Tony is on his feet, moving to help Natasha into a standing position and trying to stop the Captain – Steve now, winded and trying to push himself up with an arm that he doesn’t yet seem to realize is broken – from doing the same. “Sit down, I’ll be right there,” he snaps. To Natasha he checks her arms, uninjured, and gestures sheepishly to her belt. “Sorry about your _sais_.” He’d remembered to warn Bruce but had, until now, forgotten the spells he’d sensed across one of her many sets of blades. “Litany of Adralla, it purges blood magic. I’d say I’d get you new ones, but—” She grins wolfishly and waves him away, any retort hidden behind a sharp grimace of pain when she attempts to walk.

“We have to go.” Bruce pulls the still sobbing young mage toward the door, barely sparing a glance over his shoulder to see if the Wardens are following. They aren’t. They’re still relatively in the same spot, still getting their breath back, and Tony is trying to the heal the break of Steve’s arm while Steve refuses to sit still. “Guys, we have to _go_.”

Tony punches Steve in the shoulder when he makes to stand up again, startling him into compliance, and the white healing magic blossoms just below his elbow. “Bruce, calm down. The demon is dead. The Tower is cleared – we saved the day.”

“Yes,” Bruce agrees easily, still beckoning from the doorway, “we did.” The young mage can he heard slowly descending the stairs, soft footsteps and thick hiccoughs, and Natasha limps a few steps closer out of curiosity. “And now we have about eleven minutes to tell all that to the Templars before they go ahead with the Rite of Annulment.”

Realization sends a cold shiver down Tony’s spine, spurring him into action – he grabs Steve’s belt and hauls him to his feet and halfway to the door before he recognizes what’s happening. Steve grunts in surprise, still woozy from the shift away from the Captain and the set of the bone, but he regains his footing quickly enough. Clutching the shield in his hand, not even sparing the second to secure it to the straps at his back, he shoves Tony into a tripping run for the exit while he sweeps his gaze across the room to clear it. “Tasha, can you—”

“I’m fine,” she assures him, already to the stairs with a speed that shouldn’t be as effortless as it is with her broken ankle – Tony is both impressed and horrified, and he tucks her arm across his shoulder to support her. She smiles at him.

Their mad dash down the tower is frantic in a way their ascent wasn’t, all scrambling and no stealth, no need to check around corners or behind doors, and the clatter they make has the surviving mages coming out from hiding to see what the noise it. The general racket is accompanied by Bruce’s counting down the seconds, yelling back as a new minute hits, ten then nine then eight and now he’s calling back two in a voice that borders on panic. There’s also the young mage’s (“Chandler,” he tells them wetly, choking on his own name like he chokes on the tears that refuse to stop, “my name is Chandler.”) heaving sobs and Natasha’s constant “I’m fine, Tony, damn it, _I’m fine_ ” when he slows his pace or stops to fuss until she finally snarls something at him in Elvhen that has him nodding his head like a chastised child and not speaking again for some time.

When they reach the Senior Enchanter’s barrier Bruce is constantly yelling the time, one minute forty _three_ seconds one minutes forty _two_ seconds one minute forty **_one_** seconds, and Tony does not have the time to negotiate – instead he growls another word, ancient like the one in the Fade, and the wards drop with the noise of a damn breaking. It leaves him tired and shaking, skin grey, and this time it’s Natasha supporting him rather than the other way around, but it gets them to the gate.

Steve bangs his fist against the wood – iron and oak. Magic won’t affect it. “The Tower is cleared!” There’s an answering knock from the other side.

“The First Enchanter!” they hear Greagoir calling. “I must hear it from the First Enchanter!”

Steve turns back to them with eyebrows raised, jaw clenched just this side of panic, and Bruce calls out the minute mark before gesturing helplessly. “Remember that mage who went crazy and turned into that demon we killed?”

“Don’t tell me,” Steve slumps against the gate.

“Yep.” Bruce glances around the room for something, anything, and Tony feels useless but he can hardly even keep himself conscious he’s so _tired_. The Senior Enchanter gathers the children to her in the far corner, shushing their cries, and closes her eyes in defeat. There’s a particular feeling in the air, something heavy and sour; it feels like giving up.

The children stop crying only when they start screaming.

Tony hadn’t even realized he’d closed his eyes until they jerk open, anger and fear driving him back to his feet, but it’s only the Hulk – he’d forgotten the Hulk, who smiles at them with a wink. “Forty seconds,” he tells them calmly, and then he pulls the door clear of its frame, wood and stone splintering around his fists, and tosses it to the side.

The Templars surge forward in panic, but somewhere amid the chaos and the dust in the air there’s time for Bruce to shrink back down and shrug into his clothes like nothing happened (“It was his idea,” Bruce tells them later, a shy smile on his face. “It was like I could hear him, in my head. I – he’s never talked to me before.” Tony pats his arm and beams at him. “Balance and control, Brucie. Balance and control.”), and when everything settles they face Greagoir together. “The First Enchanter is dead,” Steve informs him solemnly, “due to his actions. He was the one behind the siege of the Tower.”

Greagoir nods, eyes darting from the door to the Wardens and back again like there’s something he’s trying to piece together, but Steve sets his stance and Natasha smiles threateningly and they drop to the floor. “That is... unfortunate. I thank you for your aid, Wardens.”

“And we thank you for yours.” There’s no room for argument in Steve’s tone, a firm reminder for the Templar of his word, and their entire ordeal is worth it for the fish gape of his mouth and the scarlet of his skin as he fights down his anger. Tony turns to share a smug smile with Bruce that ends with his knees giving out beneath him, and he thinks he whites out for a moment before Bruce presses the cool glass of a vial of lyrium into his hand; it takes two to quell the headache pounding behind his eyes, and another three before he can stand unassisted.

A commotion from behind the Templar guards reveals itself to be Clint elbowing his way to the front, Thor and Dummy following in close quarters and beaming to see them returned safely. The dog is fastest, launching himself at Tony and nearly knocking him over again, but Clint is barely a step behind – he pauses long enough to note any injuries, or lack thereof, before pulling Natasha into a tight embrace. She goes easily, melting against him until all of her weight is off the ankle she now only favors, as he presses his lips to her forehead. The rare display of affection has the Wardens quickly drawing attentions elsewhere, Thor and Bruce to the rescued mages and Tony and Steve back to the Templars. “You will assist us against the Blight,” and again there’s no question in Steve’s tone, no hesitation, “or you will be in violation of your word and lose the support of the Grey Wardens. As you said yourself,” the edge to his voice isn’t the Captain at all – it’s all Steve, and it’s terrifying. “Ours is an _antiquated truce_.”

Greagoir sneers at the thinly veiled threat. “The support of the Grey Wardens is worthless, especially since Ostagar.”

It’s Natasha who replies, silently inserting herself between Steve and Tony – Tony catches her with a hand at her wrist and, when she nods, finally sets to work on healing her ankle. They’re both so exhausted that the process is slow, slower than it should be but she smiles down at him gratefully and it doesn’t seem to matter. “Tell your king,” and the edge to her words is as precise as those of her blades, “that the allegations against the Wardens of this land will be reviewed only once we have stopped the Blight. But the actions of a rogue few across the strait do not reflect the actions of Weisshaupt, and you would do well to remember that.” Greagoir looks properly shamed by her words, and Tony has to fight to keep his face from betraying his awe – apparently, it really is that easy.

“Apologies, Wardens.” He addresses Natasha alone, despite the address, and offers her a small bow; she has that effect on most people. “And we will honor the treaties. When you call, the Circle will answer. Now,” and he beckons one of the younger Templars over, “we have much to do to rebuild. We don’t have much to offer by way of thanks, but please, rest a night before you continue on.”

* * *

They’re put up for the night in one of the newly-cleared barracks chambers, three pairs of bunk beds and a conspicuous stain on the floor, but they’re so exhausted that they hardly notice, let alone care. “Sleep,” Steve tells them as soon as they’ve barred the door, shedding his mail beside one of the lower bunks. “We leave for Haven at first light.”

No one sleeps.

Natasha and Clint ignore the beds entirely to curl up in the corner, eyes on the exits, and lapse into soft conversation – it’s in Orlaisan, which no one but them speaks, and though their voices are hushed it’s obvious they’ve called an end to the fight that kept them apart since Redcliffe. They suspect the two are talking about the Fade, given the way Clint grows gradually more still and silent, knuckles clenching uselessly around his bow. Apparently having formed a bond in their six hours together, Thor drops to the floor beside Dummy and continues a tale of a mighty wolf, the son of a god, while Dummy thumps the stub of his tail happily against the stones. Steve lays on his back on the bed, hands clasped, and stares at the ceiling; no one disturbs him, not after the day they’ve had. Tony and Bruce pick through the tattered scrolls among the remains of the shelves along the opposite wall, finding nothing of use but a few minutes of entertainment, before Bruce breaks their silence with a quiet confession. “They offered me a teaching position.”

Tony is halfway through the account of Devin the Mighty’s encounter with Maighdlyn the Fair – not the epic the title promised, more an awkward teenage love story, but he can’t help rooting for the kids that it works out between them – and doesn’t process the words immediately. “Hmm?”

“Wynne,” and he takes the scroll from Tony’s hand, rolling it slowly. “The old woman, they – she’s the new First Enchanter, and Chandler told her about what happened with the mages. He told her about me – well, me... and the Other Guy – and,” he pushes his glasses up his nose like he does when he’s nervous, “she offered me a position. Here. As Senior Enchanter. I’d be a teacher again.”

Tony bites his lip against his instinctual reaction because the others are sleeping, or trying to, instead grabbing at his arm with a muffled “That’s great!” that hardly sounds even halfway as excited as he feels for his friend. He can’t help the enthusiasm – he’s read Bruce’s journals, knows his brain, his passion for teaching and how much he misses it. “Did you accept?”

The response is a rueful smile. “Well, I told her that we’re all probably going to die,” and Tony does allow himself to laugh at that. He has to, they all have to laugh at it, to keep the hysteria at bay. “But that if, by some miracle, there was still a world and a Tower and, you know, a _me_... that yeah. I accepted.” He returns the scroll but Tony only tosses it back onto the pile, bored already, and they pick through the final few in silence. “What about you?”

Tony looks at him in confusion, the soft blue glow of lyrium through his shirt providing them just enough light to see by. “What about me?”

“You know,” Bruce gestures around, not the Tower because they both know Tony would never find his peace here, but a general motion for the world at large. “After this – if there _is_ an ‘after this.’ What are your plans?”

He shrugs. “Haven’t thought about it.”

Their conversation drops off after that, along with Clint and Natasha’s, and the room falls into a restful quiet despite the fact that none of them are fully resting; they sit, or lie down, but if anything they’re simply waiting for the sun to rise on a new day. Finally, when the candle marks only an hour before the sun is set to rise, Tony lays down on one of the uncomfortable mattresses and thinks about Bruce’s question. He’d lied. He’s thought about the future, about the mysterious and hopeful ‘after this’ where the world is able to heal itself into some semblance of normal, almost constantly. It’s just that, as he rubs the circle of diamond in his chest that used to be a heart and now is magic and miracle and a clock ticking down and an ache in his bones and an exhaustion he feels carved down into his very soul, he doesn’t think he’s going to see it.

**Part Four**

I.

The sun is just peeking over the horizon, a gold crescent rising over the line of the trees, and they’re already waiting by the gates, fidgeting with nervous energy or triple checking the straps on their packs or their armor, anything to fill the time it takes Wynne to pass along her whispered farewells. She sends them off with tearful thanks and enough healing salves to regrow a limb or two, which might last them at least to Haven given their track record, and three large flasks of lyrium that she presses gently into Tony’s grip. He tries to smile but instead feels his face tighten and his hands shake, and Thor takes them from him before they can drop to the floor.

In the aftermath of the siege, the Tower remains eerily silent, and it seems to be spreading – Steve hasn’t spoken to any of them since the night before, uncharacteristically silent and surly, but he’s hardly the only one. The elves have returned to the same not-talking as they had the day before, but this time they stand pressed against the other and their lack of communication includes the entire team. The only one who shows any reluctance to leave the Tower – the building still feels too strongly of Fade memories or dead children or six hours of not knowing and forty seconds of almost too late – is Bruce, spending minutes kneeling on the stones beside Chandler in hushed conversation. The young mage doesn’t cry, not today, but when Bruce finally rises to leave he grabs at his arm and pulls him into a hug; Bruce stiffens, surprised, but slowly reaches his arms around to pat the boy on the shoulder. “I’ll be back,” he promises as he awkwardly pulls away, and Chandler nods his head as Bruce retreats to join them at the gate.

Clint breaks the silence with a fragile smile. “You are gonna be _really_ great for these kids,” and there’s such conviction in his use of the future tense that they almost believe it could come to pass.

* * *

Eleven days on the road and they’re perhaps halfway to Haven now – they’d guessed the trip to be twenty days but they can’t take roads in the proper sense, thick with patrols of both their human and Darkspawn enemies, but Clint gets them across forest and foothill along paths that only he seems able to see. It’s slower going, but not by much. – when Steve calls a stop just this side of a river. It’s swelling over the banks, water cold and current strong, and they take their rest in a small wooded glen along an unmarked, near invisible forest path; not safe, but close enough. “Let’s just... just take some time, guys.” The dark circles under his eyes have only gotten worse over the nights since the Tower, darkening with their moods, and he doesn’t wait for a response from them before he turns for the riverbank.

Everything has been heavy since the Tower, even the air, like all of nature is pressing inward and trying to break them down – Tony is _tired_ , of all of it, and he drops his packs to the ground before wordlessly joining Natasha as she starts to set camp. She waves off his attempts to help (“I need to keep busy,” she tells him that first night out from the Tower when he rises from not sleeping to find her cleaning every scrap of leather and metal they’ve got. “It helps clear my mind,” and he gets it, he does, because he’s spent two nights now laying in the dark with numbers and spells, turning them over in his mind until all he can think of is how they fit together.) and he doesn’t wait for one of her pointed stares before he follows after Steve.

He finds him seated in the grass by the water, back ramrod straight and he doesn’t even have the shield with him like he always, _always_ does; more telling is the way that his only reaction when Tony sits beside him is surprise, like he hadn’t noticed him come up. “Want to talk about it?”

“With you? No,” but there’s a smile buried in the exhaustion. Steve rubs a hand – still mailed, like he’s forgotten – over his face with a heavy sigh; everything is _heavy_ , the air and their bones and the world on their shoulders. “I just...” He reaches in front of him like he can’t find the words, but he finds a small stone instead that he tosses into the river with a faint, satisfying _plop_. Tony fights a war within himself, fear and anxiety and the too-present voice of insecurities that is his father’s and Stane’s and his own all at once, before patting Steve on the knee.

“I’m sorry about your family.” There’s been so much silence since the Tower that when they fall back into it it’s the only thing that feels normal. Steve throws another stone and Tony tries to snatch the words back – he can’t so he settles for his hand instead. “I’m sorry to make you go through that again.”

“Not _again_.” Steve’s voice is as tired as the rest of him looks, wrung out and pale, and it’s only been perhaps two months since Ostagar but they’ve all aged by years. “I was... injured, when the Darkspawn attacked Breuckelen. Ended up unconscious with a skull fracture.” Another stone falls heavy into the water, landing with a hollow noise that echoes the one that falls heavy in Tony’s gut. Steve is a large person, large with muscles and mass and the Captain’s commanding presence, but in this moment he seems very, _very_ small. “I wake up,” his voice catches on the words, thick with blame, “they tell me the whole town is gone, and we’re at war.”

It’s a too-familiar story, waking up to this nightmare, and Tony tugs helplessly at the ties of his shirt; the warm-cold hum from his chest tingles through the fabric and calms the tingling of panic that begins in his legs.

“I knew.” The weight lifts – quickly, to quickly, pulling all the air with it and Steve’s voice is light, and Tony’s head is light, and— “Objectively, I knew they were gone. I guess I just thought that, since I hadn’t _seen_ it, maybe there was a chance they—” Steve returns to throwing pebbles, one and then two and then five at a time, until the staccato _plop plop plop_ forms the background rhythm to his words. “I thought that I had died. I remember... not a lot, actually, just the panic in the streets and then there was this _thing_ – a Hurlock, I know that now – and then I got hit from behind. Next thing I know I open my eyes and Breuckelen is _fine_ , only she’s older and simpler and—”

“The Fade.” Tony’s been turning that particular puzzle over and over for almost two months now and there’s never been a connection, never been a place it _fits_ and he’s been going crazy with it. But this is the final, missing piece, and everything between Steve and the Captain and now falls into understanding and the itch in his limbs falls away. “And Cap.”

Steve throws another one two three rocks. “He told me about the Darkspawn and the Blight. Told me that I had been tainted, and that I was going to die... then I decked him.”

Tony tries to hide his sudden bark of laughter behind a cough, but his shoulders start shaking with it and there’s no way to disguise the way his face crinkles into a grin. “You get to the Fade after death, meet the spirit of Captain America, and your first instinct is punch him?” Steve turns a rosy shade of embarrassment, starting at his nose and moving out across his cheeks, and Tony’s laughter catches up in the tangle of his mind as it calculates the angles of his face.

“I told him that just because he’d given up didn’t mean that I had.” Now that he’s met the Captain – _Bucky_ , he thinks, but it’s hard to call him by name when he’s wearing Steve’s face – Tony knows the steel in his voice, the strength and determination, isn’t from the spirit at all. “And he laughed, and told me there was a way.”

Tony nods like he understands, even though he doesn’t – he can’t imagine being the sort to fight that hard to get back to a battlefield. “So that’s how the whole,” he gestures in a vaguely circular pattern, “thing came to be. You and Cap.”

“He needed a form. I needed a fighter. It works for us.” He says it so casually, like it’s the simplest thing he’s ever done to wake up in the rubble of his life and start picking up the pieces, and Tony can see it then – in that moment and the way he shrugs off the weight of the world that rests doubly now on his shoulders like it’s an obvious choice – why the Captain chose Steve. It makes him feel desperately unfit to share space with this man, let alone a conversation, because while they both lost their homes and their friends and even their family (because Tony can admit that now, that he’d found a family among the dwarves, and bile burns low and dark in his gut that he never told them when they were alive) to the beasts, Steve had gotten back up to help others while Tony had to be dragged to help even himself. It reminds him of what he’d said when they first met, two months and lifetime ago, and now the words burn in his throat like bile: _I may not be a hero, but at least I’m not pretending to be one_. He was wrong – Steve’s not pretending. None of them are.

“I’m sorry.” He means for that first meeting, for those words, for Steve having to watch his family die, for being the one to break that hope that maybe, _just maybe_ , everything would be alright. “I’m sorry.”

Steve’s mailed hand falls heavy against his leg. “None of this is your fault, Tony. You even—” and here his voice catches again, just slightly. “You tried to save them. In the Fade, I mean, I remember – You knew they weren’t real, and you tried to save them.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t. And mostly I’m sorry for stabbing the demon who looked like your wife in a Fade dream.”

There’s silence again, only a beat of it, and then Steve laughs – actually laughs, but it’s a touch hysterical and not at all warm or soft like it should be. “Peggy? We weren’t—” Breathing gets a little bit lighter as a genuine smile crosses his face, and now Tony’s the one reaching for stones; he skips the first one five times before it _plops_ into the water, and Steve takes the second to try and beat him. They tie. “When we were younger I thought maybe, but it didn’t really work out. She and my brother got married about ten years ago. Michael and Sharon, the kids—” His voice and his face fall. He distracts himself with sifting through the riverbank for a perfect skipping stone, and Tony offers one he finds by his boot; this time Steve gets seven and Tony only gets four. “They were only eleven months apart, like me and Thomas.”

“I’m sorry,” Tony says again, this time quiet and fragile because _he_ did this, made Steve live through that loss and every day that follows with it burned into his brain. “I’m sorry you lost your family.”

For one terrifying, breathless, _hopeful_ moment, he thinks that Steve is going to hug him – his hands move to cover his shoulders, squeezing gently despite the mail, and the used to be a heartbeat in his chest does a panic skitter-stop when Steve _smiles_. He smiles and it’s all over, Tony’s survived magic and monsters and darkness only to be done in by a soft smile and big blue eyes. “I lost them,” Steve agrees, but he doesn’t sound as broken as he used to, “and maybe someday, if I survive that long, it won’t hurt to think about them.”

“You’ll survive,” Tony assures him, because he cannot imagine a world where he does not.

The hands at his shoulders squeeze again. “We all will. That’s the thing about family,” and the word has him leaning back abruptly, rising to his feet and dropping the remains of the pebbles along with what remains of the moment. They all clatter noisily to the ground. Steve grins after him like he knows, standing in a far more graceful motion. “We get each other through.”

 _Family_.

Tony trips over his own feet trying to hurry back to camp.

* * *

Clint draws up short when they reach the outskirts of Haven, whispering a few words in Natasha’s ear; they haven’t been out of reach since leaving the Tower, more often then not keeping themselves to a soft-spoken privacy, but this time she moves to Steve’s side. Clint appears beside Tony. “I’ve got a bad vibe,” is all he says, but rather than rolling his eyes like he would have done only months ago – gut feelings and intuition are a poor replacement for numbers and facts – he instead nods in agreement and relays the message to Bruce. They’ve all been on edge since this began, nearly three months and a lifetime ago, but Clint’s previous bad vibes have turned out to be resting patrols of Darkspawn or ranging bands of thieves (and once, on one memorable occasion, a rabid bear). If they’ve learned to trust anything, they trust his instincts.

Steve motions them forward with a small flick of his hand, and Clint and Natasha disappear into their surroundings. It’s terrifying, Tony thinks, the way they’re clad in leathers of black and grey and brown and the ground has a two-inch cover of white snow, but he still loses sight of them within moments. “Something is wrong,” he whispers to the remaining others. “Natasha says she can’t hear anything moving in the village.”

Tony now turns his thoughts longingly back to the days of small towns like this one that left him feeling stifled and over-attended. “Any chance that everyone is just asleep? I mean, it’s winter. Maybe they’re hibernating.” He knows there isn’t a single chance of that being the case, because this world of theirs is not that kind, but maybe there’s a little bit of luck left in them.

“Sleeping people _breathe_ ,” Steve reminds him, and Tony sighs because of course it’s not that easy; nothing is anymore (“Would that were the case, my friend,” Thor falls back to tuck two vials of the lyrium he has taken upon himself to carry into the pouch at Tony’s hip. “But that is perhaps because I too wish to hibernate until this,” and his gesture encompasses the town, the mountains, the half-ravaged land beyond, “has ended.” “You and me both,” he agrees wearily.).

Just inside the entry to town is an oblong clearing that, when not covered in a pristine layer of snow that reveals a lack of any activity since at least the snowfall two days before, would be used as a place of worship – smaller towns, especially ones as isolated as Haven, rarely have proper Temple buildings. Tony’s never been a religious sort (never believed in any of it, and Thor offers a bright grin when he catches him staring) but even he finds it odd, the lack of presence in a town built at the base of a sacred site. – or gathering. The houses – simple, one room structures of rough-hewn dark wood – ring the clearing on the two longest sides. The side farther the gates of the town holds two larger buildings, a tavern and store respectively, and a second set of gates – these are more ornate, the delicate wood carvings painting a series of violent storms – that open to the peak beyond. “The Temple is at the top of the mountain,” Tony points up the craggy path at the far side of the village.

“I don’t like this,” Bruce whispers. They’re all whispering, have been since they arrived, taking their cues from the lack of _anything_ really – now that he’s looking out for it Tony notices the lack of birdsong or bustling households or any activity in the snow – that seems more ominous then any sound could hope to be. Even their breathing feels like it doesn’t belong in the dark, fatal stillness, and the hairs at the back of his neck stand up with similar anxiety.

Steve doesn’t answer – at least, not with words. He releases the straps that keep the shield across his back, hefting it down onto his forearm, and the familiar motion begins some ingrained, almost instinctual reaction in their group. Leather squeaks as Thor twirls the hammer in his hand, and the skitter-prick of magic fills Tony’s hands like water from the river, threatening to overflow. “Stay close,” is the only command Steve gives them, because he doesn’t need to tell them anything else. By now, they know.

The clearing is a blank slate with the four lines of their footprints stretched now halfway across, and then a twig breaks along the perimeter. They freeze. With a creaking, aching groan the door of the tavern pulls open and a – man? He looks like a man, or at least what used to be a man, only his eyes are empty and his face is deathly gaunt – face appears in the opening, stark white against the dark interior. “Not welcome,” he intones flatly, like he’s reading from a prompt, and his face narrows into a gross parody of a threatening glare.

“Oh,” Tony groans beneath his breath, “Oh, I can already tell that we are going to _hate_ this.”

The man, if he can still be called that, shuffles forward into the tamped down road before the building. He moves in a similar, jerking puppet-string motion to the possessed Templars, only his eyes are an icy blue instead of a hollow black, and he seems completely unaware of the snow and ice beneath his bare feet. “Not welcome,” he repeats, and his voice gains volume but it does not gain variety – a blank slate. A straight line. No inflection. “No outsiders welcome in Haven.”

Natasha materializes at Steve’s opposite elbow with blades drawn, a sudden bloom of crimson and black against the white snow, and Tony catches the similar movement of Clint’s return from the corner of his gaze as he falls into place beside Bruce. “The buildings are all inhabited,” she murmurs quietly, too loud in the too still of the meadow, “but the people within are not moving.” The mental image immediately and unpleasantly reminds Tony of the walking corpses of Redcliffe.

“I threw a pebble,” Clint’s normal speaking shatters the eerie village like an explosion, “and seven people across three houses turned to the sound, but didn’t move.” He punctuates his report of the situation by nocking an arrow to his bow, string relaxed and tip pointed down at the ground in rest, but Tony knows that he could aim and fire at least twice with perfect accuracy before Tony even noticed he was shooting. “This place is creepy as hell.”

The quiet feels threatening now, like a forest gone silent when it senses a predator. “What’s the call?” Natasha asks Steve but she’s looking at Tony, and his skin itches with something other than the magic that crackles along it. “Don’t kill the townspeople if we can help it? Or—” She loses her voice at the heavy, hunted expression in Steve’s gaze – this is the world now. “Survive.”

More doors pen with tortured groans, the spaces filled with empty faces and hateful stares; an initial count shows thirty visible, with a quick estimate of at least that many hidden behind. “I hate our lives,” Tony says again, feeling the way the cold and the nerves and the words leech into his bones and he’s not even tired anymore. He’s too tired for that. “I really, _really_ hate our lives.”

“Don’t worry, Tony,” and it says a lot about how far they’ve come that now he actually smiles to hear the Captain’s bland, strained voice. “Someday we’ll find something that kills you.”

 Thirty pairs of empty, icy eyes turn to lock on him as he throws his head back and laughs, bright and bitter. “Oh James,” he meets the crooked grin with one of his own. “You say the sweetest things.”

II.

The cut-string puppets of the Circle Tower had fought like nothing more than muscle memory; jerking, uncoordinated movements drawn out from the last lingering electrical impulses in the Templars well-trained brains. These creatures, however, move like their only driving force is pure fury.

They are relentless, seemingly unaware of the cold against their skin or the ice beneath their feet, and they move across the winter ground like they are fully dressed, though many are not. Nor are they in the fullest of health – it’s obvious that the mixture of unseasonable weather and oncoming Blight has affected the country’s farther corners more than the central cities. The adult appears gaunt with hunger, and the children – _children_ , Tony realizes, and the very thought is enough to swing his first shot wide. Too wide. Clint meets his eyes with a stare of barely suppressed understanding – pale with malnourishment. These people were starving to a slow death long before whatever hypnotized them to a quick one.

 _Survive_ had been the order, but no one seems keen to follow the unspoken _whatever the cost_. After Tony’s attack swings too wide to even scare its mark, Clint’s infallible arrows bury themselves in an arm, a leg, and a shoulder all in rapid succession; direct shots, but none of them fatal. Thor and the Captain move only when one comes within reach, planted still in a way they are normally not, and while there’s more than a few broken arms or ribs being doled out between the two of them, every single villager who is knocked back or down stands to come at them again. Even Bruce remains fully human at the back of their group, protected by a lunging Dummy who snaps at anyone managing t make it through the others’ painful, if survivable, attacks.

Much in the way they do not notice the sting of the cold, the villagers do not appear to feel pain either.

“As much as I’m sure they appreciate the gesture,” Clint finally calls to the others – he’s positioned himself at the tree line, bark at his back, where he fires one two three arrows into the limbs of a man who bears down on him with an axe. The man flinches each time, but continues. “We’re not getting anywhere with this.” A fourth arrow, this time right above the joint of the man’s elbow, that pauses him only long enough to consider the state of his now-ruined arm with detached focus. “And I’m running low on ammo.”

The problem is solved in a red and black blur as Natasha buries a blade in the base of the man’s spine and, in the same wrenching motion that has him dropping to the ground, pulls the four bolts from the body to hand them back to Clint with a silent, serious gesture. “Survive,” she whispers fiercely, and presses a hand flat against his chest, directly over his heart (She calls him that, when she thinks the others can’t hear – _my heart_. Sometimes, in the dark, with the soft blue glow from his chest and the silence that should be the _thump thump thump_ of an organ beneath, Tony wonders if the same thing once happened to her.). Her quiet order is echoed in the rumble of the Hulk, finally allowed free.

“Survive,” he agrees, and Dummy’s growl changes from something caught in his throat to rumbling up from his chest – defense to offense.

There are children here, Tony wants to argue, and their families. They are obviously under some kind of thrall, the way their vacant eyes are filmy ice blue and the way their words are flatly parroted scripture. Children, and innocent people, and—

And this is the world now.

“Survive,” he concedes, and he absolutely does not think of Fergus, of Chandler of seven-year-old Pepper, of the young teen who sneaks up behind Thor with a boar-spear in his hand. Instead, he thinks of the monsters that are swallowing the world whole. One of the (admittedly many) qualities that had made him a terrible king was his inability, his unwillingness, to see the bigger picture – he’s a scientist. A scholar. His brain works in parts and pieces, turning them over in his head, examining the edges and finding the connections. But _this_... the entire world is a pretty big picture, one that even he can see.

Sorrow and rage burn like the fire in the palm of his hand. He takes aim, and he shoots.

* * *

Too much later and they’ve been backed up the steep hill, tripping over rough-hewn stairs against the seemingly endless wave of villagers, to the foothills of the mountain. The air is thinner here, cold, and exhaustion nips like a hound at their heels; it takes everything to keep standing, let alone fighting, and it only becomes harder when they’re forced to split their forces – half continue against the unyielding attack of the possessed villagers, and the other half face off against the unyielding door at the lower entrance to the temple.

There’s no handle to pull it open, no keyhole to fit any lock – there is, however, a star-shaped indentation with a series of runes ringing it, dusty with age. Clint slaps his hand against the wood in frustration and reaches back to snag one of the mages – he gets Bruce first, who pulls a face at the sight and offers a quick ‘more Tony’s deal’ before ducking forward to bring Natasha another throwing knife – by the sleeve. “Door’s locked,” he gestures at the nearly blank expanse of wood, and then to the symbols in the center. “What does that say?”

Tony sighs. There’s a headache that’s been building like a crescendo behind his eyes for weeks now and he’s _tired_ , of all of this. Of everything. “It says that we need a key.”

“Thanks, buddy,” and Clint’s responding glare is as sharp and pointed as one of his arrows, a lethal combination of unamused and unimpressed. “I couldn’t possibly have managed to figure that part out without you.”

Another sigh, this time impatient, and he waves a hand at the cluster of carvings nearest to the center. “No, seriously. This one here says ‘the device,’ and then the squiggly one behind it means to... ‘to proceed?’ And then _these four_ ,” Tony isn’t sure if Clint is following his rapid motions, or even if he cares. All he knows is that this – symbols and set meanings – is the only part of the whole damn day that hasn’t made him wish he’d never woken up all that time ago. “Mean ‘they must require.’ It literally only says that we need a key.”

Clint slaps the wood again, harder this time, twice in succession and curses beneath his breath in vehement _dwarva_ (“We’ve been spending too much time together,” Tony does not joke with him their sixteenth night out from the Circle. They’re on the second watch together, but Tony’s accompanying gesture includes the huddled lumps of their teammates rather than just the pair of them. “Don’t I know it,” the elf complains, but slings a companionable arm across Tony’s shoulders.). “These assholes are the most unhelpful people in all of history.”

“Present company excluded.” Steve’s acerbic response is the only warning before he none-too-gently elbows them out of the way and jabs the edge of the shield into the crack of the door frame. “Now make yourselves useful or move out of the way.”

Tony throws him the approximation of a salute with a wry “whatever you say, oh Captain my Captain,” that has Steve rolling his eyes, but shifting to allow space for Tony to join him and Thor as they lever their weight against the shield. It strains, immovable object meeting unstoppable force meeting plain old hell no, but then slowly, inch by interminable inch, the door creaks open just enough for them to slip inside.

III.

The door closes noisily behind them, grinding back into place with the sounds of an ancient mechanism locking and bolting shut; there’s no turning back, at least in that direction, and Tony shifts uneasily as the feeling of being trapped lights across his skin like the magic normally would. They’re in a small chamber, strange only in its otherwise misplaced normalcy: four walls and a floor of smooth stone, torches blazing cheerily on the walls, and a single, heavy door at the far side. For a brief moment they are not on a frozen mountain at the end of the world – and then the air shimmers and takes form, and there’s a quietly wounded noise from the elves beside him as Ser Phillip appears.

“Wardens,” he greets in that same, unflappable voice. “You’ve managed to come this far. I’m glad.”

Natasha is the first one of them to move, hand at one of her blades and eyes narrowed as she slowly circles him. “You died,” she reminds him accusingly, and it’s only months of close confines that has Tony able to notice the tightness in her voice as she speaks.

He shrugs, unconcerned. Ser Phillips is remarkably unremarkable out of his armor, as much so as the room he stands in, which is exactly what made him such a fine choice of regent: he is forgettable, underestimated, and – from what Tony’s heard – a devil on the battlefield. “Yes.” There hadn’t been a question in her words but he answers it anyway, a single word that has her relaxing back into place beside Clint. “He did.”

“You’re not—”

Ser Phillip – or something wearing his likeness, at any rate – shakes his head ruefully. “I am not. I merely took a form that would be familiar to you. One you would be willing to listen to.” When he moves, it’s only to gesture at the runestones in the floor where he stands, a second carved above the door they entered from. “I am a safeguard of the temple, a spell worked into the stones. My duty is to protect the relic and all those who enter seeking it – I am a warning. There will be trials, should you continue. Only the worthy shall possess the power of Thor,” he intones. “Many have attempted. None succeeded.”

Thor surges forward at that, though he stops just shy of the specter. “But I _am_ Thor.” His voice is heavy with command, with conviction, and up here in the forgotten temple it’s almost easy to believe that maybe, just maybe, he is.

Something ripples beneath Ser Phillip’s ghostly visage as his face twists into anger. “You were cast out,” he snarls in a voice not his own, something loud and strong and eternal. “You were not worthy of the powers you had been given.”

He shrink back at the admonishment, chastised into something small and human again, and Tony feels indignation scrape his palms raw with the surge of magic. Thor has risked his life for them time and again, fought beside them in a battle that is not his to fight, and— And he is perhaps a god, perhaps only a man, but whatever of those he is, he is a good one. “Hey now,” he hisses, and both Thor and the specter turn to meet his gaze. “Whatever happened, happened. But the Thor I know today is worthy of any power.” Thor smiles at him, the same as he did when they entered the village.

In the blink of an eye the image wears a different face. Tony flinches back from this one, breath catching in his throat because it’s so much like his own – older around the mouth and harder around the eyes maybe, but the resemblance is more than remarkable; he’d forgotten what he’d looked like. “And _you_ , Tony Stark,” it snarls with the voice in his head, the one that tells him he is pathetic and a coward. His father has been dead for over a decade now but memory of his lessons remain. “You’ve cut and run from every responsibility in your life. Do you honestly think you’re worthy of _anything_?” Whatever courage he’d found to defend Thor deserts him, a rebuttal sticking in his throat, unable to pass the chokehold that always accompanies his father’s voice, and he shakes his head wordlessly because no, _no_ —

There’s a sharp _ting_ of metal on stone and a whining sound of released energy, and the image abruptly flickers out of existence. Steve quietly steps forward to retrieve the shield from where it is buried nearly three inches deep into the ruined runestones set into the floor. “I was done listening to him talk,” he says simply, and Bruce makes some noise in the back of his throat that might be an agreement.

In the following silence, Clint bites down a snort of near hysterical laughter and extends his arm, fist out, for Steve to bump his mailed glove against. “That was _awesome_.”

Cheeks pink, Steve shrugs away the praise. “Everyone we’ve met seems keen on telling us how we _can’t_ do this, and I’m tired of it. He moves from the center of the chamber to the perimeter walls, examining them for weakness after finding the doors – both of them – locked and impregnable. “I think if we’ve learned anything so far it’s that we _can_. Maybe – definitely – not as individuals, but as a team we’ve managed well enough thus far.”

“Great pep talk, Rogers,” Tony croaks around the loosening of his throat. “As long as we work together, we’re sort of alright.”

It earns him another one of those smiles, the ones that are soft and special and increasingly less rare, and the stranglehold of words returns with a vengeance and a pressure in his chest. “Eh,” and it must be the lighting, the flicker-flash of torches in the darkness, because he would swear that Steve winks at him. “It’s a work in progress.”

“He’s right though.” Bruce shrinks back in on himself when he realizes he’s spoken aloud, louder than he’s used to, and drawn the attentions of the whole room to him; he does not, however, fall silent as he would have before. “Steve, I mean. We all work well together. And Thor,” the other man’s face lifts at his name, “you’ve saved our lives more times than I can count. You joined a battle that was not your responsibility because you wanted to help. Whatever happened before,” they all say it that way – _Before_ – like it’s another world. Another lifetime. In all the ways they can measure, it is. “Doesn’t matter.”

He smiles and clasps Bruce’s shoulder tightly, leaning down to make eye contact. It’s easy to forget exactly how _large_ he is, the way he’s kept folded inward these past weeks, but impossible to ignore here in the mountains where he seems... more, somehow. Something larger and older. Something maybe, possibly, from a realm not their own. “You as well, my friend. You should not downplay your own part in this.” He grins around a short flash of white teeth. “Both of you.” Another trick of the light has Bruce’s eyes blinking around a bright green reflection, and then brown again.

Natasha joins Steve, running delicate fingers along the seams of the stonework with one hand while laying the other at his wrist in a calming gesture rendered entirely useless by the frustrated glare she gives the lack of exits. “As much as I enjoy baring my soul,” she tells them wryly, politely ignoring the bitten smiles and the smothered laughter at the blatant lie, “we should perhaps focus less on this verbal group hug and more on getting out of here.” There’s a warmth, however, to her voice that removes any of the potential scorn of her words.

The air buzzes again with a crackle of magic returning, only it’s not from Tony – the stone in the floor, broken into at least eight pieces from Steve’s shield, lets out a groaning noise as the flickering illusion of Ser Phillip returns. He is vague and unfocused this time, in and out like static, but he is smiling. “You have shown great loyalty,” he tells them, and his voice is clear though his image is anything but. “You may proceed.”

The stunned, contemplative hush gives way to Tony’s flustered, furious protests. “Was – was this a _test_??”

Ser Phillip – or an image of his memory, or perhaps a mix of the two – smiles placidly and folds his hands against his chest. “Of course it was. Best of luck, Wardens.” His image flickers out for a final time, the glow of the stone going dark and all but fading into the dust, and the door at the far side of the room creaks open.

* * *

Unlike the last one, this second chamber is large and open – almost a cavern, the way it stretches in all directions. Worse yet, aside from the ledge they stand on the floor is a gaping hole, jagged edges descending far into the mountain and disappearing into darkness long out of sight. Directly across from them, a hundred yards or so away, is a second door and a second platform; there’s a taunting pile of a rope and wood bridge piled carelessly in front of it, discarded and out of reach.

“Well,” Bruce’s voice is resigned – the deep grind of the Hulk lingers just beneath the surface, strained but controlled (“I don’t like enclosed spaces,” Bruce had told him after the Tower. They’re lying on their backs in a field, an eternity of stars above them, and Tony knows that can’t sleep but he’s not sure what the other man’s excuse is. He suspects, quite strongly, that Bruce is simply keeping him company at this point. “Not anymore.” Tony’s quiet for a moment, staring through the darkness to the multitude of pinpricks of light, and matches his breathing to the steady pace of Bruce’s. “You’ll never be locked up again,” he says like a promise, but he’s not sure he means a cage by the river or a Tower on the lake.), and Tony’s not exactly _worried_ but he does move to stand closer, just in case. “This sucks.”

Natasha paces the edge of the cliff like a caged animal, slow and silent, and her black leathers glint like living shadows in the flickering light of the torches lining the walls. When she finishes her pass of the chasm, she turns to them with a pinched expression. “I don’t know if this is good news or not,” her voice clearly says that it’s the latter, “but there’s a rope.”

They crane forward, eyes straining against the darkness to see the single, thin tendril of fibers stretched across the gap; it’s a small, rough looking rope, probably handspun, and secured by iron loops to both ends of the chasm. Though hardly warranting being called a bridge it was probably put in with the idea of one, hanging with a slight slack over the indeterminable drop. Bruce swallows audibly before letting out a quietly annoyed noise. “I would like to amend my previous statement,” he tells their silence with a voice more gravelly than before. “This. _This_ sucks.”

Leaning out, Thor takes one of the lyrium vials from the pouch at his belt – this one empty, spent from the battle down in the village – and drops it over the edge. If it lands, it’s far beyond their hearing. “I cannot ask you any further,” he says without turning around, almost contemplative of the gap and the rope and the darkness beneath. “The fate of the world rests with you, and I—” He faces them now, smile resigned. “I fear I must continue this on my own.”

Steve clasps him by the arm, below the elbow, mirroring the gesture that Thor had extended them on the shore before the Tower; then, it had been a farewell. “We go together,” it’s rings in the air like a promise, and the smile on Thor’s face quickly turns to hopeful, “or not at all. You’re one of us, Thor.”

Tony barely notices the exchange. Instead, he watches Natasha as she stands with her toes over the edge of the gap, leaning down to examine the hoops in the wall, and she looks thoughtful. Whatever she’s thinking, he knows it’s not going to be anything he likes. “Natasha?” She doesn’t immediately respond, though the others do – they fall into a respectful silence, waiting. “Tash?”

“Do you still have that chalk in your pack?” The question is just unexpected enough, in both tone and topic, to throw him off balance and leave him agreeable, brain scrambling for meaning – it ignores the implications and focuses only on the words themselves, and he unshoulders his pack to dig through it. With everything that’s happened to them, everything they’ve been through, he barely remembers that he even carries one anymore. The weight on his shoulders had been there long before the leather and canvas became a part of it, so much so that the additional baggage has yet to fully register. He has a pack. He has chalk. In another lifetime, one only weeks ago, he’d drawn a hastily sketched miracle into the floor. He expects no such luck today.

When he hands it to her, realization hits like a sudden, stabbing pain. “No.” Natasha does not blink, not that she ever seems to, but her gaze softens and she meets his eyes unflinchingly. “Nat, _no_.”

“I’m the lightest of us,” she explains, rubbing the grit into her palms with even, fastidious motions, shoulders tense; she turns away from him then. In another lifetime, weeks and months and a whole world ago, she would not trust him enough to stand at her side, let alone her back. She would not have offered to die for him, either. “If it’s going to hold anyone, it’s going to be me.”

Understanding washes over the others like a wave – small at first, a blink or a breath, a pinprick of time suspending perfect clarity, but then growing into a clamor of noise. Thor reaches out to her, hands clenched tightly into fists, but he does not make contact; he stands frozen like a statue, face drawn gaunt, and allows himself only a single, stern _no_ in protest. Steve is a lightning blur of argument and alternatives, none of them viable, but Tony stops paying attention to him in the span of time it takes for the first words to fall from his lips – all he can see is Clint.

He does not move, does not breathe, rooted to the spot like he’s sprung up from the very stones upon which they stand, and he looks—

He looks—

He looks _gutted_ , which Tony uncomfortably realizes that he has a frame of reference for. “ _Ma vhenan_ ,” his voice is fragile in the air; she does not reply, but the lines of her back arch taut like the lines of his bow. “I can’t lose you again.”

“Clint,” she whispers, and her eyes look as flat as her voice sounds; it is uncomfortable, seeing her as something brittle. “We – I have to.”

Empty hands clench in the air, knuckles going white and in the eternity of silence that follows, all Tony can hear is the creak of joints straining against themselves and the stifling of too-heavy breathing like a sob. He wants to say something, but can’t; there’s nothing to say, his voice isn’t working, he goes to breathe in and he finds that the noises are coming from _him_ and he can’t breathe, he can’t—

“I’ll do it.”

For the second of time it takes him to finally draw a breath, dark and heavy like the air, like he’s breathing in shadows underwater, Tony is convinced that he is the one who’s spoken. Then he sees Bruce, skin pale and eyes brown, wide like maybe he’s as surprised as the rest of them, standing just at the back of the group. He is, especially for him, strangely calm; human, and entirely so, and he doesn’t sound sad or scared or stressed. He sounds relieved, like the weight of the walls has stopped pressing in on him, and he steps forward to lay a gentle hand at Natasha’s wrist. “I’ll go. I should go... With everything left ahead of us, we can hardly afford to risk any of the remaining Grey Wardens. There’s so few of you left.”

It strikes him then, completely inappropriate in its timing, that Tony has genuinely forgotten than Bruce and Thor are along out of their own offering rather than obligation. From the way that Natasha softens, suddenly leaning into his shoulder in the way she so rarely does, he’s not the only one. “Also,” and for all that Bruce’s voice is lighter his expression is not; if anything, the lines of his face are drawn more grimly than they were. “I’m pretty sure that I – well, that the Other Guy – could survive the fall. Without getting into it now... things got pretty rough after the accident. He can survive a lot.” _Believe me_ , Bruce had said to Tony when they first met, and the realization hits him like the ice-cold of the river over his head. He smiles, soft and sure. “Guess we found that reason after all, yeah?” And then, before anyone can find the voice to stop him, he moves to the edge.

The rope holds.

He tests it first with a foot, pressing down with as much of his weight as he can, and then drops to his knees to take it in his hands, shaking and pulling violently; the rope creaks and groans, but holds. When he finally makes to cross he does so slowly, arms and legs hooked around the rope as his body hangs below, creeping along at a snail’s pace. Tony thinks that it’s agony for those waiting, watching with hearts in their throats and breath caught in their chest as he inches, literally inch by tiny inch, forward – it must be more so for him, limbs straining, lungs heaving with the strain.

Bruce is only a third of the way across the gap when cautious optimism loosens the tension of their spines. That is, of course, when the rope suddenly snaps.

The sound reaches them before anything else: a slow, groaning, noise that builds like a wave until there’s a final, unforgiving growl and then— It sounds like the release of an arrow or the breaking of a bone, both noises that Tony has become uncomfortably intimate with over the course of the past months, and then there is a single, infinitesimal space of time where, in the silence, he can actually _feel_ the scream that crawls up his throat, rips through his chest like a scavenging beast ( _Your heart, Tony. They ripped out your heart._ ).

“NO!” someone – Thor? Steve? He doesn’t know anymore. All he can hear is the blood rushing to his ears and he thinks that he’s going to pass out – yells, and hands grab his shoulders roughly. Only then does he realize that he’s surged forward, right to the edge of the gap, hands outstretched like maybe, just maybe, he planned on going too.

“Bruce,” someone else calls, voice high and fragile, marked with guilt and grief, and that’s all he hears before the world tunnels down to the single breath air that is Bruce’s last as he registers what’s happening, the single point of brown eyes widening and turning to green too late, _too late_ —

“Ow,” comes the echo of the gravelly voice of the Hulk. “Don’t like.”

Tony almost doesn’t feel the jabbing, jolting press of shoulders shoving him out of the way until one – Thor’s, he can tell from the vice-like grip at his elbow that steadies him and the hushed ‘careful, brother’ that is quickly drowned out by various cries – nearly sends him over into the abyss. He feels like he’s drowning, all sound and light and air coming through muffled and murky, and his lungs hurt and his chest hurts and he doesn’t even have a heart anymore but the pounding in his ears threatens to send him to his knees. He’s already kneeling. He reaches for the ground to find that he’s already braced against in, hands and knees splayed on the stones, and breathes in with a sharp, rattling attempt that does nothing more than burn in the salt of tears at the back of his throat.

Bruce is alive.

The Hulk sits, grumbling and glaring, about ten feet down from them, surrounded by broken rope and... nothing. There’s nothing beneath him but darkness, the black of the void, but he presses his hands down and lumbers to his feet, rubbing the back of his head. “You’re okay, buddy,” and Clint sounds more like he’s convincing himself of that than anyone else. “You’re okay.”

Bruce is alive.

In any other moment, even the first where he can feel his limbs to bring him to standing or can suck in air without losing it to heavy, heaving noises that he refuses to admit are one step short of tears, Tony would be fascinated with whatever keeps the Hulk suspended like that. Magic, clearly, forming an invisible bridge, but the specifics evade him; he wants to turn it in his hands, over and over until the pieces slot into place, but when he raises them from the dirt he finds they are shaking. _Pathetic_ , says the voice in his head, and he thinks he must have finally forgotten what his father’s voice sounds like because this time it just sounds like his own.

“You have shown great courage,” comes the voice from everywhere and nowhere at once, and Tony lets out an angry, achingly relieved gasp. “You may proceed.” Across the gap and its cleverly hidden bridge, the door creaks open.

* * *

Predictably, the door punctuates their entrance with a final, heavy noise as it closes behind them; when he looks (because he does, just to check, just in case), Tony is worried to find that there is now only a wall in place of it.

Worry turns to surprise, and then to panic, as the _twang_ of a bow releases and a vibrating, purple-fletched arrow buries its head completely into the stone beside his head. “Incoming!” he yells, but the others are already moving to the small amounts of cover the room affords, and then he turns to try and asses the threat only—

Oh, he thinks. Oh.

Okay.

Because the enemies, they’re – well, they’re _them_.

Clint-who-is-not-Clint reaches for a second arrow as Bruce-who-is-not-Bruce shucks his shirt and glasses in the same motion, skin surging large and green and dangerous; around them, the them-who-are-not-them shift their stances into battle ready. Clint – he settles on a qualifier of ‘actual’ Clint because it’s the only one that sums up the entire situation. The other Clint, the Clint who is not, is solid enough to fool most but, to his trained eye, has the static, shimmering outline of a simulacrum. As with the Coulson-that-was-not-Coulson, these are obviously another test of some kind; he sees the faint line of runes on the floor before them like a barrier – swings from behind a downed column and fires a shot of his own in return. Despite the aim being true, it passes through the not-quite-Clint harmlessly.

It does, however, deflect off of the other Captain’s shield with the solid _ting_ of metal on metal.

“Tony,” comes Steve’s somewhat far away voice – he had moved left rather than right at the entrance, now crouched with Thor behind a pile of barrels against the opposite wall. “Working theory?”

His working theory is much the same as his current reaction: confusion, and an underlying current of panic that’s been the backdrop to his existence ever since he lost the steady heartbeat he once timed these things to. Anything else – anything else would require more information to go on, a _lot_ more, and he leans out to get a better look at what they might be dealing with. A second arrow buries itself right above his shoulder before Natasha’s hand wraps around his belt and hauls him down behind their cover of rubble, and the not-Hulk lets out a familiar, pre-charge roar. It seems that this is all the information he’s going to get.

“Focus,” she whispers. “ _Think_. What do we know?”

He thinks – it’s what he does best. Clint was the first of them through the door, and poses the largest threat from any distance; still, the arrow was not aimed at him. A return attack passed directly through its intended target, despite visibly hitting dead center, but made physical contact with the figure behind it. The figure struck was not Clint, but Steve. “Throw a rock at not-Clint,” he urges Natasha, and her blank expression is betrayed by the sharp almost smile of her raised eyebrow. Before he can wonder if she’s understood his meaning she stands, launching a small pebble with devastating accuracy, and the simulacrum of Clint dodges to avoid the stone. It’s still not much, but it’s all he has and all he’s going to – the motion draws the attention of the angry not-Hulk.

“You can’t hurt _you_ ,” he calls out to the others, hoping they’ll understand the split-second explanation he has to offer; he himself is already on his feet, ready to run, when the not-Hulk roars his final warning. “But you can hurt anyone else. Not-you can’t hurt you either.”

The not-Hulk charges, and Natasha tightens her grip against Tony’s belt and drags him backward against the wall.

“Flashes of light!” Bruce calls frantically. “They’re very disorienting!”

On instinct, Tony beckons the always-present tingle of magic into his hands and shoots a bright, otherwise harmless flash of sparkles directly into the simulacrum’s path. It draws short with a savage snarl, frantically rubbing its eyes, before staggering back to regroup on the far wall behind a misfit barrier of its own. He takes the precious second to turn back and meet Bruce’s gaze, seeing him shrug self-consciously. “I also can’t reach my shoulders or upper back very well,” he offers, and as much as Tony wants to respond, he can’t. Instead he swallows heavily and nods his head because he understands, he does, exactly what has just been given to them: weakness. Bruce’s weaknesses, in fact, the ways to take him down and—

Oh, he thinks. Oh.

There’s another roar that Tony barely acknowledges beyond sending a second flash, this one less harmless, and trying to ignore the yelp of pain and surprise from a voice that sounds too much like Bruce’s. The flash – more like a small explosion really, and he smiles when the others flinch like he planned it that way. He doesn’t want to admit that it’s either that or the burning roil in his gut finally eats him alive. – serves are more than just a defense; like a catalyst, it spurs both sides into action.

The Clint-who-is-not fires an arrow that only barely avoids Tony’s eye; it’s only the quick reflexes of the Captain – Steve, this time – and his shield that keeps him alive, and he smiles a split-second in thanks before ducking around the offered cover to catch the simulacrum with a returning shot. There’s only enough time between that and another breath before he turns back to the not-Hulk, a rocket of blue flames sent directly toward its chest. “Guess this one’s mine,” he jokes, or tries to, and refuses to make eye contact with the other mage. “You guys got the rest?”

The others reach the same conclusion he already has, and much at the same time if the respectful hush that falls means anything. Thor releases his grip on the simulacrum Steve’s arm (sending him flying back a good eight ten twelve feet without any effort) to rest his hand lightly against Clint’s shoulder, careful not to disrupt the shot he’s lining up. “My current weapon leaves me vulnerable to ranged attacks,” he says with complete seriousness, with tangible permission in his voice. Clint nods, unwavering, and takes a single breath that is anything but steady.

“And I’ve always been terrible at hand to hand,” he admits, shifting balance to his left foot and the next arrow skims the gap in armor at not-Thor’s ribs. “Also, hammers.” Thor, their Thor, nods sagely and squeezes his arm again before barreling across the room. His path takes him through the thick of the fray, lashing out with his hammer when he can (he nearly catches Natasha on the elbow, but she uses the distraction – and the leverage of a solid arm – to swing her entire body into a kick that leaves the not-Tony stunned). He ducks around the Hulk – their Hulk, the actual Hulk, roaring defiantly now that the simulacrum’s mage fire is delayed – and ends up right inside not-Clint’s reach. Tony stops watching after that.

Two down.

Natasha’s eyes are wide with something beyond fear, some deeply ingrained, down-to-her-bones discomfort, when she makes eye contact with the Hulk; despite everything, her voice is steady and sure. “You,” she tells him simply, and it’s the first time Tony’s seen her speaking to Bruce’s other form directly. “I can’t predict you, I can’t outrun you, and I can’t match you in any form of combat.” The admission leaves her sounding infinitely younger, and he wonders when the last time she was allowed to admit weakness was.

By way of response, the Hulk reaches over Thor to solemnly grasp the not-quite-Natasha by the throat.

She only looks away when there’s a flash to her other side, deflected off Steve’s shield and away from their Hulk; it joins with Tony’s attack on the simulacrum until the stench of burning flesh chokes the air in the chamber. “I have no idea what I’m doing most of the time,” Steve tells them as he shifts the shield from one arm to the other, widening his stance to better deflect the beam of energy. “The only reason I’ve made it this far is the Captain—”

“I know how to the handle the Captain,” she says simply. Coldly.

Steve ducks his head. “I thought you might.” It reminds Tony of their time in the Fade, of the casual, half-forgotten way they’d greeted each other, and the scientist in him burns to ask, to know, to ink lines between the points of connection he’s already drawn in his head. The same voice reminds him that there’s a time and a place for such conversations, neither of them here, and that if this were information they’d wanted him privy to they would have mentioned it by now. The voice, he smiles, sounds suspiciously like Natasha’s.

It’s in his moment of inaction that he realizes they’re looking to him now, and Tony doesn’t know what to say – he’s not a fighter, has no style or technique to analyze for strengths or weaknesses or otherwise. He’s never thought about this, never given thought to himself as anything other than strangely invincible... until the day he was proven wrong (by dying, he thinks he dies that day, and with a shuddering breath he wonders if maybe this has been Hell all along). And suddenly, like that, he knows.

He knows where his weaknesses lie, and he wonders what took him this long to realize – he can feel the inevitability of death lingering in his bones, skirting around the wound in his chest like predators kept barely at bay. “Just,” and his hands move of their own volition, fluttering up toward the circle in his chest as a momentary tell. “I don’t know exactly what will happen, but hit it really hard.” He can’t meet Steve’s gaze.

“Okay,” Steve says softly. He clears his throat quietly, and tries again. “Okay, got it.”

Tony squeezes his eyes shut as the shield raises, breath caught in his throat, and tries to ignore the way that his chest squeezes like a vice at the sound that follows: a familiar _clank_ and then something colder, like ice, before a flash of blue light and he clenches his fists until he can feel the tendons pop. He doesn’t notice that the battle has ended until there’s a sudden heaviness in the air, a tangible silence, and his skin prickles hot and cold at once – not from electricity this time, not from magic, but from the simple awareness of another body standing inches from his own. “I’m sorry.” He opens his eyes to a ragged voice and a mailed chest as Steve pulls him into a fierce, desperate hug. “I’m sorry.”

“You have shown great honor,” the disembodied, booming voice interrupts. Nobody reacts to it – nobody moves, or speaks, suspended perfectly in time for this moment. Then, finally, they reach out with hands and arms to grab on to one another, ensuring that everyone is still there. “You may proceed.”

* * *

Shivering from their ordeals, the spirits of the day lingering like an illness, like a weariness that sets in bone deep and Tony does not care anymore, he just _does not care_ , they stand in the cool white light of the final door. “Ready?” Steve asks, feigning calm, but his voice wavers and his hand shakes.

Clint speaks for all of them. “Not even remotely,” he leans heavily against Thor’s side, entire body sagging in on itself but it appears there’s no hard feelings between the two – Thor had turned mournful eyes on the elf as soon as the battle had ended, a wounded ‘you _killed_ me’ that might have garnered sympathy had he not cracked a tired smile seconds later. It seemed easier for them than it did the rest, moving on from the memory of ending a friend’s life. “But let’s do this anyway.” Backs to the ice, it takes three of them to shoulder the slab open enough for the other Wardens to slip through into the open cavern beyond.

Tony laughs, a hysterical bark of noise that draws the attention of all six pairs of eyes to him in an instant of simmering fury. “I really, _really_ hate our lives.”

IV.

The final chamber – it’s more of a coliseum, four walls that go up and up and Tony doesn’t see where the smooth marble ends and the craggy mountain begins, it just is and then it isn’t. The floor beneath their feet is hard-packed snow and ice, and there’s no ceiling above them beyond the clear blue sky – is as large as the village below had been, but seems cramped by comparison with the bulk of the dragon in it. It stands out against the stark white backdrop like a gemstone, all scarlet and gold scales and wickedly hooked black horns, and when it fixes its baleful stare on him it does so with one single, massive orange eye.

Beside him, Natasha lets out a forceful expletive in her native tongue that Tony doesn’t recognize, but he agrees to anyway. Drawing and firing three arrows, that do little beyond giving the dragon something other than them to momentarily snap at, almost at once, Clint mutters a strained “understatement” in response.

There’s a barely heard creak of leather and mail as Thor shifts uneasily on his feet. He’s grown increasingly anxious, or excited perhaps (too often, it seems, the two go hand in hand) as they’ve progressed farther through the trials placed before them, and now with this – the final, they assume, and by far the most difficult – ahead of them he’s a livewire of nervous energy. “Captain,” he begins softly, soothingly, and Tony’s not sure if the gentle tones are for their benefit, or the dragon’s. “If I might suggest—”

It appears he can’t, because the dragon whips its head toward the sound of his voice, eyes tightening like it _recognizes_ , and the beast lets out a screech that has every last one of them, Thor included, dropping to their knees and clutching in vain at their ears. Head to the sky, it bellows an eerie, angry scream that tapers off in an attack, swooping down with mouth wide and teeth gleaming. Tony doesn’t think, just reacts, and there’s a moment of panic that is so far beyond the scope of monsters and magic because he doesn’t _do this_ – he’s a scholar. A scientist. Normally he has to examine the problem piece by piece, turn it over in his head, but there’s _no time_.

His magic ripples across the dragon’s scales like a stone across a pond, slick and easy, and despite the light show that ensues as it skitters across the pebbled skin and back in on itself, amplifying in power, the creature doesn’t seem to notice. He’s read about things like this, and of course. _Of course_. “Magic has no effect on the dragon,” he calls wryly over his shoulder, refusing to look back and risk catching a glimpse of the same uselessness he feels – _Pity_ , snarls the voice in his head that is his father’s and the dragon’s and his own – reflected in their gaze. “Looks like I’m benched.”

He’s not benched so much as tackled, a flash of blue and red armor the only warning before he’s dragged down into the snow with an arm around his waist; the space in his chest that used to be a heart but is now spells and stillness skips a phantom beat, impossibly, and he hardly feels the ice at his back. “You fucking idiot,” the Captain is snarling at him, voice fond where his actions are not, and he rolls them away from where the dragon’s clawed hand scrabbles against the ground in pursuit. “What are you _doing_ , just fucking standing around like that.” The words do not turn up into a question so much as an irritated observation, attention only half on Tony as the other arm brings up the shield to block another too-close snap of teeth. They _ting_ off the metal before twisting to the side, following the flash of Natasha in her black leathers.

“Sorry?”

The white, clouded stare is not as hollow as he once thought it was, and Tony wonders if that’s more to do with the Captain’s periods of control now coming fewer are farther between, allowing him to summon more strength, or merely the slow warming of friendship between them. “Heal,” he orders sternly, shoving Tony unceremoniously to one side of the action; it’s too easy to see him instead of Steve around the sudden, crooked smirk. “Good boy.”

“Fuck you, Barnes,” Tony bares his teeth but shoots a quick flash of light beneath his arm – it can’t hurt the dragon but it _can_ distract it, the large head turning at the motion just long enough for Clint to scuttle back out of reach and find his footing. The hard-packed snow of their first entry has quickly turned to a deadly slush beneath their churning footsteps, and the archer waves in quick salute before firing another three four arrows at the beast’s skull.

The Captain fidgets against his shield, eyes drawing back to the battle. “Just sit here, keep us alive, and keep out of trouble. _Please_ , for me.” That last bit is all Steve, the Captain melting away in a sharp gaze and a familiar earnest intensity and Tony finds himself agreeing without a fight. There’s a moment where Tony’s fragile control over the expressions on his face wavers, where he hopes that his smile hasn’t gone as soft as Steve’s looks, and then the Captain blinks white eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. “You two,” he mutters, tugging the mailed cowl of the armor up over his hair; as he turns away, it’s all too easy to pretend that he had said nothing at all.

His palms white with gathered healing spells, he freezes when he glances over the group for who might need any – a better question seems to be who does _not_ need them. The spot on Thor’s shoulder where a townsman caught him with a knife has reopened, a sluggish flow of bright scarlet against his tan skin, but it doesn’t seem to be slowing him down any more now than it had when it first happened. The Hulk is still favoring his left knee, twisted beneath him as the rope dropped across the chasm, but with the way he’s got both arms locked around the dragon’s leg, dangling twenty-three feet in the air, it doesn’t seem as pressing. Both Natasha and the Captain move as though their ribs hurt them to breathe, which, given the way the simulacrums had gone at them, might not be such a stretch. Clint’s got a broken pinky on his right hand which hasn’t affected him aim yet, but _might_ affect his strength to draw.

It has been, between the townspeople and the trials at the temple and now _this_ , an unbelievably long day, and even Tony’s skill with magic leaves no quick fix for exhaustion.

Numbers and estimates flash through his brain, measures of what they have against what they lave left, and he doesn’t like the way that every end result feels more like giving up entirely – he prioritizes. The ribs are first, jolting movements turning more fluid, coming with more ease, and though neither can stop to offer him any form of thanks he takes it from the way they stay alive. The Hulk is shaken to the ground with an angry grunt and becomes his second target – the thing that they never tell you, he thinks, is that healing is hardest from a distance, that it takes more out of the caster. He can already feel the hollow, clenched chest feeling that he’s come to recognize as the reserves of lyrium growing dangerously low.

“Heads up!” Clint yells, landing a shot in the fleshy part of the dragon’s hand that leaves it shaking and screeching in pained fury. Natasha dashes toward the Captain, who braces his knees in the ice and raises his shield for her; she hits it at a dead run, and the combination of her leap and him serving as a springboard launches her into the air. She digs her blade into the back of the dragon’s skull and clings to whatever purchase she can to balance against the writhes of pain that roll beneath her like the ocean. A particularly violent jerk sends her flying, over the dragon’s head and into the wall of the cavern.

She curses violently after impact, alerting them that she is alive, but does not immediately jump to her feet. “Get up,” Tony hisses, watching the way that the dragon shakes its head to clear its vision, orange eyes narrowing in fury as his teeth clack in warning. “Nat, _move_ ,” and he thinks he might have yelled it but it doesn’t matter anymore because the dragon—

The dragon lunges, a growl deep in its throat, and Natasha—

Natasha blinks slowly, head injury slow, and she doesn’t even try to move, she just turns her head and locks her gaze on Clint’s. The world slows down and speeds up all at once and Tony can _see_ her, can see the slow blink between her and Clint that must be a goodbye and he can’t _do_ anything, no one can do anything, and they’re too far away—

With a roar that matches the dragon’s for strength and a flurry of motion, Thor launches himself between Natasha and the dragon. There is a sharp, sickening noise as the teeth snap shut, and then everything goes silent.

V.

_Courage. Honor. Loyalty._

The voice is everywhere and nowhere all at once, a whisper and an echo, a boom in the back of his mind and he’s not sure if he’s awake or sleeping; the world is white and still and silent and he thinks his eyes are closed. They’re open. He doesn’t have eyes. He’s no longer aware of his body. All he is aware of is the voice, loud and strong and eternal, that speaks the words like a mantra, like a spell, everywhere and nowhere and it sounds deeply, fiercely, proud.

**_Sacrifice_ ** _._

He opens his eyes and they’re standing in a great hall, towering pillars of gleaming gold and an open ceiling of rainbow crystals and though it is daylight, he can see stars – none are familiar. Torches burn without fire, light and warmth filling the space, and a raised dais holds an empty throne that is larger and smaller by comparison – nothing about this place makes sense, not really, but at the same time it’s solid and real like the Fade isn’t. He’s not dead. None of them are. Natasha rises from the floor, completely unharmed, and Clint is at her side in a blink; she says something to him that is too soft to hear before Tony turns away, and from the corner of his eye he sees his arms wrap around her and her melt into his chest. Steve and Bruce are to his other side, clothing and wounds as miraculously mended as Natasha’s had been, with matching expression of confusion that Tony’s sure he must be sharing, and then beside them is—

Thor, healthy and whole, with a face that speaks volumes – sorrow and loss and finding again, and he doesn’t smile so much as his whole face just brightens with hope. He stands tall and proud to the crack of thunder that echoes through the space, and when Tony follows the direction of his gaze he sees Thor’s eyes locked with the figure at the far end of the hall.

There stands an old man who is loud and strong and eternal like the voice, hair white and a single eye that brims with starlight, and his golden armor catches the light of the crystals and the sky and the fireless torches to glow like a beacon. “Whosoever holds this hammer,” he intones, voice everywhere and nowhere and ancient; there is a distant thrumming noise in response. The wind picks up and the thunder booms – a storm is approaching. “If he be worthy, shall possess the power of Thor.”

Thor shoves down a smile, face proud and impassive, as he nods his head in acknowledgement. There is a vast, unspoken conversation between them in the following moments, ending only when Thor shoots a hand out to catch the hammer that comes rocketing through the air, lightning crackling in its wake; when his hand makes contact there’s a muted thunderclap. Instantly, in a tornado of rain and wind and storm, the Thor they know, the Thor who has fought and slept and traveled beside them, changes. First comes armor, like dragon scales, flowing across his arms and up from his boots until it meets in looping circles of silver around his torso, and then he stands tall, taller than he’s seemed in weeks, and he throws his head back and _laughs_.

It’s like the tremble of thunder on the horizon, loud and strong and eternal, and the sound echoes after them as the mysterious hall melts away.

They are standing on a snowy peak of a mountain beside the corpse of a great dragon. Looking healthy and proud in a way that he hasn’t in weeks, Thor –  **Thor**. _Actually Thor_ , and Tony saw it happen but he still can’t process that fact – shifts his grip on the hammer, clenching his hand against the leather until his knuckles go white like he never intends to let it go again. He wears his godhood like a mantle, settled over his shoulders and coiled around his neck, effortless and unmistakable.

The air is crisp and cold and _real_ , and beyond the whisper of a breeze there is a moment of absolute silence before Clint – and Tony is forever grateful to him for speaking first, because it would only have been another second before the maelstrom of words in his head spilled out his mouth in a litany of ‘what the fuck what the actual fuck’ as he struggled to breathe – breaks it with a casual, “Well. That was new.”

Natasha turns a sharp and incredulous gaze his direction, but solidarity comes as Bruce, eyes closed and hand clenched (and they politely ignore the way his skin goes pale then green then pale again) rasps out a quiet, “Huh.” It’s a single noise, gravelly and strained with the effort to not lose his calm in the face of dragons and whatever-the-hell-just-happeneds, but it speaks to the scientist in Tony in a way that brings him focus. Huh, because this shouldn’t be as surprising as it is; Thor had been upfront with his identity, told them exactly what would happen. It was their fault for rejecting his words as truth and suddenly there’s a universe of possibilities playing out behind his eyes – Postulate: the old legends are rooted in fact. Postulate: the gods exist as men. Postulate: everything you know is a lie. – and he wants to turn them over in his hands, over and over and over until he has all the information and it all makes sense.

Huh.

“So,” and he’s surprised to hear himself speaking; rather, he’s surprised to hear his voice sound so steady and sure when he feels anything but. “Thor, huh?”

To his credit, the other man looks only amused. “I do recall mentioning that to you,” he says through a toothy grin – he’s radiating happiness as much as he is some serious not-of-this-world vibes – and it’s like he’s gotten back whatever missing part that made him the vibrant warrior they’d first met. “Once or twice.”

“Does this mean you’ll be leaving?” Natasha asks then, voice soft; Tony hadn’t even considered it a possibility, hadn’t thought at all, and something close to sadness clenches in his chest. “You can finally go home.” She says the word reverently, either because that’s the weight he places on the idea or because that’s the weight she places having never had one, and Tony feels like this is something he should probably know but he _doesn’t_. He’s been so caught up in his own apocalypse that he never sat down to ask about Thor’s, and now he’s leaving and – his chest is cold and he hates that he cares so much about people walking out of his life when it’s usually him that runs first.

Thor – _Thor_ , and he repeats it in his head a few more times and still can’t quite make sense of it – glances at him from the corner of his eye, gaze softening, before turning his eyes upwards to the swirling clouds and flurries of breeze like he’s searching for an answer. “No,” he says finally, voice soft. “I have taken the safety of Midgard as my duty, and I would not abandon that now.”

“Well,” and this time Bruce is entirely himself, donning normalcy along with his glasses and blinking a few times to adjust (“It’s actually not the change that leaves me so confused,” he confesses after the Tower with a shy grin when he accepts his glasses back from Tony; he always seems lost after he’s been the Hulk for any extended period of time, slow to react and generally still. “I just can’t see anything.”). “Duty or not, we’re glad to have you.”

Thor’s face brightens again at the words, gleaming in the sunlight. “Nor would I abandon my friends in their time of need,” he continues. Though he smiles, behind the words his face is serious, heavy with promise and purpose and something that is ancient and unknown – there’s a far-off, sad look in his eyes as he stares across the valley to the distant skies beyond. As if in response, a cold wind stirs the frosty earth at his feet. “The storm is coming,” he tells them, and Tony feels a chill shiver down his spine at the ominous warning.

The moment hangs heavy in the air, broken only when Steve rests a brave and companionable hand on Thor’s suddenly much broader shoulders. “Then we’d better get moving.” Godhood or not, it’s impossible to see Thor as anything other than the man they’ve shared battles and bread with when he smiles like he does in return, youthful and earnest. “Come on, Avengers – to Orzammar!”


End file.
